


C’est La Mort

by strawberrykait



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drama, F/M, Paranormal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unspeakable Hermione Granger is assigned the formidable task of analysing the Dark magical contents of the long-abandoned Malfoy Manor. Unfortunately, it is not as abandoned as everyone believes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: AU HBP
> 
> Warnings: Main Character Death, Secondary Character Death, Strong Profanity, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mild Violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, Glynn Washington and The Civil Wars, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original(s). No profit is being made from this work. 
> 
> Story Notes: Special thanks to Glynn Washington, and The Civil Wars for their very inspiring lines. _Sweet William’s Ghost_ is a traditional ballad. And a very special THANK YOU to my betas, McCargi, Dormiensa, and Rumaan.
> 
> Beta(s): McCargi, Dormiensa, and Rumaan.

Malfoy Manor had stood for centuries in the same unctuous attitude, its white stones perfectly upright, the windows glaring down at all trespassers with nothing short of haughtiness. Malfoy Manor had survived countless generations of glory, and even a few decades or more of what others would describe as disgrace, though no Malfoy, alive or dead, would ever speak of it. Within, the luxurious corridors and endless magnificence of style and wealth were forever evident, and after so many centuries as such, it would likely always be so. However, the opulence served primarily to disguise the malevolence of each successive master. The walls were covered as much in hatred and villainy as they were in rich tapestries and silk wallpaper. 

It had been more than ten years since anyone had set foot within Malfoy Manor, let alone lived there, but that was to change momentarily. Hermione Granger stood beneath the wide, arched entrance of the formidable mansion with nothing short of absolute determination. Whether she was the tiniest bit afraid of the place, or what might lie in wait for her within, was not evident, save, perhaps, in her slight hesitation. Following the deaths of the last of the Malfoys more than a decade prior, and without any distant relations stepping up to claim the property, Malfoy Manor and all of its holdings were turned over to the Ministry. Hermione was here now because she had a job to do. The opportunity to catalogue the vast collection of Dark artefacts from such a notorious Pure-blood family had left her practically drooling; but as she faced the reality of Malfoy Manor and her own history with it, etched into skin and stone years before, she faltered. Beyond the dubious treasures within, what other phantoms awaited her? 

Shaking herself free of a ridiculous moment of apprehension, Hermione’s grip tightened on her case and opened the door. She was not surprised by what she found within. Everything appeared in its rightful place, the dust lying thick upon every surface, undisturbed. _All of this grandeur, lost with the ruin of its masters,_ she thought as she quietly stepped through the foyer, leaving an evident trail of small footprints behind. The once magnificent carpet covering the entryway was frayed and dull, having been ripped and chewed on by rodents and other foul creatures. Many of the portraits she had seen on her first visit at seventeen were missing, but a few remained, judging by dingy sheets draped across frames here and there. The door to the right stood open, a permanently yawning mouth, awaiting her. She gaped at the once fine tapestries within, moth-eaten and dull. She couldn’t recall the exact colours of the Manor; however, the lack thereof was now glaringly obvious. This was not where she needed to be, she thought, her heart quickening within her chest.

Hermione drifted away from the doorway, making her way cautiously, yet determinedly, towards the grand staircase in search of Lucius Malfoy’s study, her first destination. In life, the Malfoy patriarch had been a vicious and cruel wizard—this she knew first-hand— and it was common knowledge his collection of Dark artefacts rivaled that of Lord Voldemort himself. Both were vile and heartless; however, following the death of Draco Malfoy, it was noted that the senior Malfoy had lost most of his favour with his Master, who, it was said, had remained here in Malfoy Manor until the Battle of Hogwarts, the battle that brought an end to them both. 

Both evil wizards met their just ends, in her opinion; however, she held a small flame of sympathy for Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione’s thoughts had often turned to Mrs. Malfoy as she prepared for this assignment. She found it quite easy to wrap her head around it, Narcissa’s suicide. She had lost her only son and her husband within a couple of years, leaving her with nothing but misfortune, madness, and an irreparable reputation. According to the family file, her body had been found suspended in mid-air above the great hall, having hanged herself. 

Crossing that hall now, a chill crept up Hermione’s spine, so she quickened her pace as she reached the stairs. The palm wrapped around the handle of her case was slick with sweat. 

Off the first floor landing, she found the drawing room, as cold and empty as most of what she’d already seen. According to Ministry files, through the drawing room and to the right, would be a gallery, the dining room, and other rooms of no significance. She retreated with a half-frown, continuing to the second floor. The exact location of Lucius’ study was unknown. Very likely, it was Unplottable, which could make this search a bit difficult. Of course, there were dozens of other rooms to search, items and books and other strange objects known to the Ministry that she was meant to catalogue, deactivate if possible, and return with, but she was determined to find the elusive study, if only for the self-satisfaction. 

The long gallery appeared before her, endless and hollow, the stone floors speckled with dim sunlight shining through the tattered drapes. Her soft footfalls echoed throughout the room, reminding her of her solitude. Someone, Merlin knew who or how many, had obviously looted Malfoy Manor, leaving behind the larger, heavier objects, as well as those seemingly without worth, before the Ministry managed to seal it off from such vandals. According to the file, removing the house-elves had been a surprisingly easy task, especially when they were not threatened with freedom but rather promised reassignment to other households. She could practically feel the magic remaining within this wicked house, vibrating against her skin, threatening her, warning her, to leave while she could. She shuddered and then raised her chin defiantly. Nothing would deter her from completing her task. Midway down the gallery, Hermione slowly spun about, determining where next to explore. The substantial library was on one end, while the other held bedrooms and antechambers, sitting rooms and such. 

So far, no study.

••• ••• •••

An hour later, she had entered every room on all three floors above ground, leaving the cellar and dungeons for the morning. Sighing in disappointment, she slunk off to the library to begin her cataloguing. It was her duty as an Unspeakable to record the remnants of the Malfoy collection— books, scrolls, objects, and more —of their historic (and monetary) value and to neutralize any Dark, dangerous items. In similar situations, they would have sent in a team of Unspeakables. However, Hermione specifically petitioned for this assignment, arguing that her unique skills with breaking insidious curses, on top of her excellent performances within the Department of Mysteries, made her the _only_ person, witch or wizard, fully capable of accomplishing such an historically important mission.

Besides, nobody else really wanted to come here.

Hermione sat back in the high-backed chair, feeling the tension that had settled between her shoulder blades and radiated throughout her body tug and pull at her muscles when she moved. Unconsciously, she began popping and cracking her joints, starting with her fingers. As she stood to contort her back, feeling the first few pops as they scaled upwards, she thought she heard a scuffling noise.

Hermione held completely still, the aches forgotten. How could she be so stupid! Quickly yet quietly, she reached for her wand with only the slightest tremble. With barely a voice, she whispered, “ _Homenum Revelio_ ” while mentally berating herself for not doing so the moment the grand doors shut behind her. 

The gentle tremble of her voice echoed near the ceiling of the library. The only other sound came from her frantic heart, racing within her chest.

Nothing, nothing whatsoever.

Hermione released her shuddering breath, rolling her eyes at her ridiculousness. Of course, no one else was here; not even a single house-elf had remained. That thought skipped over faded memories of Kreacher and 12 Grimmauld Place, which had been far more terrifying when she and her friends had first occupied it following Dumbledore’s death, at the start of their hunt for the Horcruxes. That was the beginning of her desire to be an Unspeakable, the year she spent searching for the darkest magic known to mankind. Looking back now, it seemed more like a lifetime ago.

She returned to stretching and popping, choosing to disregard any further noises she might hear as likely being an owl, or a rat, or some other insignificant creature. Definitely nothing that would possibly cause her alarm, let alone harm. 

With that decided, she glanced about her work area. So far, nothing unexpected for a house of this age and a family lineages as Dark as the Malfoys and Blacks had been. She frowned at herself for failing to locate Lucius’ study; yet on the whole, she felt somewhat satisfied with her accomplishments thus far and therefore permitted herself to retreat for the evening.

Not bothering to tidy up, Hermione made her way down the north stairs to the first floor and a previously chosen bedchamber. It was not the grandest within the dilapidated manor by any means, but the deep green velvet bed curtains looked the least moth-eaten and worn among the rooms she’d briefly inspected. Plus, the room faced west, so she would not be disturbed by the dawn, which, unfortunately— but not unsurprisingly— was only a few hours away.

With a tremendous yawn, Hermione flicked her wand towards the dusty duvet, whisking away the years of dirt and dust, fluffing up the lumpy pillows, and turning the bed down for her imminent rest. She was fast asleep before she knew it.

••• ••• •••

Although the windowpanes were sound and secure, the storm that arose in the late hour was strong enough to rattle them. Lightning flashed, quickly followed by thunder, the rain slapping harshly against the Manor, urgent and mad. Hermione slept on, unaware.

Then, the comfortable temperature of the bedroom dropped, goose pimpling her exposed skin above the covers. Still mostly asleep, Hermione shuffled about, burrowing herself further down. Yet, the cold persisted, enough that she was soon after only half-asleep. A chilling wind swept through the bed, eventually waking Hermione up. Groggy and chilled, she sat up, thinking she ought to cast a warming charm.

As she reached toward the bedside table for her wand, Hermione screamed. 

Cool grey eyes were staring at her. Startled, she fumbled backwards, getting tangled within the covers and falling right off the other side of the bed with a heavy thump. In an instant, she was standing, in control of her emotions, and prepared to expel whoever had the audacity to invade her personal space.

Except… she was alone. 

Frantically, she glanced about the room, marching quickly around the bed to fetch her wand. She curtly cast a _Lumos_ in order to better examine the room. There had been an intruder, she was absolutely certain of it. Well, mostly certain. Her sensible brain kicked in, assuring her that she’d only imagined someone in bed with her, that after hours of examining such Dark texts, squirreled away in this horrible place, it was perfectly reasonable for her imaginative brain to trick her. A dream, most likely. 

Roughing her free hand through her mussed hair, Hermione trudged back to bed, already whispering the charm to warm it, and hoping for a deep, long sleep. Thunder grumbled outside, soothingly.

“How did you get in here? Get out!”

Again, she screamed. Sitting up in the bed was none other than Draco Malfoy, who glared at her. Lightning lit up the bedroom fleetingly, the dark shadows quickly falling back into place. Wide-eyed and shocked, she could only stare at the darkness, and then she laughed, shakily. “Goodness, Hermione. When your brain plays tricks, it really goes all out,” she muttered, continuing toward the bed.

“I said ‘get out’, Granger!”

She stopped again, her mouth dropping open. Her eyes strained in the dark toward the angry voice, waiting. When the lightning flashed again, Draco Malfoy remained where she’d thought she’d imagined him. This was no dream, yet it had to be. Draco Malfoy was dead— had been for several years. She must be mistaken. She aimed her wand in his direction, the tip glowing bright. 

Someone was definitely sitting atop the bed. When her wand lit up, the figure turned away from the harsh glow, but not before he could be positively identified. 

Hermione was in sheer disbelief. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?” she whispered, her wand faltering slightly. 

“I live here, you twit,” he replied, turning back once the wand light dimmed.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head slowly. “You don’t actually _live_ here anymore, Malfoy, because… because you’re dead.”

••• ••• •••

What remained of the night was completely wasted, for Hermione spent it arguing fruitlessly with the ghost of Draco Malfoy. The pair had screamed at each other for a time, but mostly, she felt as though banging her head against the marble stairs would have served her better than attempting to explain to him that he was, most definitely, dead. Each time she attempted either to crawl back under the covers or to abandon the room, he would block her, flinging insults or questions her way.

The situation truly confounded her. 

Admittedly, she had not done sufficient studies on ghosts and apparitions, but what knowledge she possessed would have her believe that ghosts were at least self-aware of their half-existence. Eventually, she chalked it up to Malfoy’s stubbornness and idiocy. When, at last, she seemed to reach him, to prove to him that he was no longer a living, breathing wizard, Malfoy hovered before her, his mouth slightly open, brows knitted together as he processed the truth. He had denied it repeatedly, obstinately, almost to the point that she had wanted to give up, but Hermione Granger never gave up on a challenge. 

After a beat, he cursed loudly, startling her. His profanity streamed from him like a twisted, raging river. He cursed Harry Potter for killing him, damned the name of the late Severus Snape for not healing him quickly enough, and eventually threw her name in for good measure. His diaphanous image soared across the room, heedless of the laws of gravity as he rose high above the floor, his rage palpable. 

An idea came to her then.

“Draco, wait!”

He ignored her, gliding through _his_ bedroom door, out into the short corridor, instead. _Damn Potter to Hell and back!_ Until he heard the door open and shut behind him, it hadn’t occurred to Draco that he’d gone _through_ it, literally.

“I said ‘wait’,” she growled. “You can’t just appear and disappear —”

“Actually,” he cut her off defiantly, his voice raised with irritation. “I can. See?” Draco scrunched up his face in concentration, but nothing happened. Again and again he tried, turning away from her expectant look, blocking out her bothersome existence, yet he couldn’t manage to fade away. How in Merlin’s name did ghosts do it, vanishing faster than a Disapparating Death Eater? And why, if he was also a ghost, couldn’t he do it, too? To add insult to injury, _she_ had witnessed his failures. Of course, she did — it had always been his curse, hadn’t it? It seemed to Draco that all through school, Granger had been lurking about, always there to show him up or prove him a failure in one capacity or another. _Fucking Mudblood._ Even in death, Draco didn’t have a modicum of respect afforded him where _she_ was concerned. 

“Leave this instant, _Granger_ ,” he bit out her name, like something foul on his tongue. “Or else —”

“‘Or else’ what? What? You might _float_ at me, rattle some chains in my direction?” She wiggled her fingers near her face, mocking him. “Oohh… you’re _dead_ , Malfoy! There’s nothing you can do to harm me.”

The _anymore_ hung between them. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to speak first despite having so much they both wanted to scream at one another. Leave it to her to throw humiliation back in his face. Another silent moment passed before she finally took a deep breath.

“Don’t you know what this means?” she quietly asked, her inquisitive eyebrows raised as she looked up at him.

“That I truly have gone to Hell, and you’re the devil?” His words seemed to simply bounce off her sudden enthusiasm. 

“It means,” she emphasized with a shake of her head, “your … spirit… will forever linger on this earth, that you’ll never leave this plane of existence and never, ever grow bored!”

Her smile was a frightful sight.

“I’m already bored,” he deadpanned. His eyes narrowed and cut toward her. “Why are you here, Granger?”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity — which, come to think of it, it might very well have been since he… died — she was quiet and looked taken aback. Draco didn’t like where this was leading. He glided toward her, something he unfortunately found to be less menacing than his formerly intimidating approach, though fortunately still effective.

“How long have I been dead?”

She winced before looking away. Draco really looked at Granger, noticing small changes he might otherwise have overlooked. Her bushy hair had been trimmed significantly and tamed into straight lengths that nearly touched the tops of her shoulders. Her face was leaner, thinner, the softness missing, and there appeared to be shadows beneath her whiskey-coloured eyes. Her hands also showed signs of aging. They were still ink-stained, the fingers long, yet now they seemed harsh, the bones sharp, and he could see fine lines across the backs of her hands that he never recalled seeing before. She looked… old, somehow. The thought disturbed him. “How long has it been, Granger?” he whispered.

She shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes dancing across the dusty, filthy floor rather than bothering to meet his. With a great big sigh, she blurted out, “It’s been nearly seventeen years.”

The raging bellow that flew out from Draco’s mouth was strong enough to rattle the fragmented crystals valiantly clinging to their ramshackle chandeliers. The very panes of glass also shook within their frames, challenging the thunder, which by then had begun to subside. Hermione shrank back against the wall of the dilapidated and forgotten chapel, more than a bit frightened of Malfoy’s ferocity. 

Just as quickly as it had come about, it was gone. His sudden silence left her wary after such an outburst. She glanced toward her — no, she supposed, his — bedroom and the abandoned bed, and then noticed the morning light as it shone through the windows. Her body thrummed with adrenaline, despite part of her wanting crawl back under the covers. She was too wound up now to crumble, regardless of exhaustion heaped on top of sheer frustration. 

“To be honest,” Malfoy quietly added, drawing her attention once more. “I thought I might be dead. Still… fucking Potter,” he finished without heat.

Hermione was too exasperated to even growl at him. Instead, she sighed before stretching. So much time had already been wasted, so, she set her mind back to her work. Without another word, she turned for the back stairs, surprised that Malfoy didn’t zip through her again, hands raised ineffectually to stop her. She silently thanked Merlin for the reprieve. The sooner she finished this assignment, the sooner she would be free of asinine ghosts.

••• ••• •••

Hermione Granger wasn’t a coward, despite being morbidly afraid of dark, small places. Although the dungeons were far from small or cramped, they were indeed dark, and small scuttling _things_ liked to hide in the dark.

Wand held aloft, she continued slowly, carefully down the stone stairs, which were thankfully dry. That was all she needed: to slip on wet stone and crack open her skull. She would have likely died down here, all alone, leaving a feast for rats and glumbumbles. Hermione shuddered and forcibly removed such horrible images from her mind. The task was set before her, and she never failed.

The wand light only penetrated a small area around her, though. “ _Lumos Maxima_ ,” she whispered and watched as the darkness shrank back, preceded by the scurrying things that were as frightened by Hermione as she was of them. 

After inspecting the three upper levels of Malfoy Manor, the library had been the only success, and it was only a moderate success at that. Hermione next considered the lowest level of the massive house. She rolled her eyes at her own naiveté, expecting to discover Lucius’ study so easily. Given the enormity of the manor, she really was not surprised, but she chose to explore the cellars and dungeons, just in case. No stone left unturned and all. Hermione paused, taking in the infamous dungeons. Luna had painted a prettier picture, which was no surprise. This torture chamber was no different from any other, she surmised, except she hoped that hidden somewhere within, she’d find buried treasure.

Actually, she would accept anything or nothing at all, so long as she didn’t find rotting corpses or strange, unearthly creatures that had somehow bred within the depths of this horrid place — lurking, silent beasts just beyond the wand light, watching her. Waiting for her…

Again, she mentally chastised herself for being truly ridiculous. With a single nod of confidence, Hermione walked carefully toward the closest wall and began casting spells. If Lucius had not maintained a study or private library in plain sight on any of the upper floors, it stood to reason that he might have hidden one away down here. 

Naturally, the simplest spells were ineffectual, so she progressed to slightly more complicated ones. Some of her fellow Unspeakables tended to jump feet first into their projects, headstrong and rash, opting to use the strongest possible magic before even trying the easier way first. But not Hermione. She was never so careless as that. No, she preferred to _keep it simple, silly_ , as her mother used to chide her father whenever he’d attempt home repairs both great and small.

She ignored the dull ache in her chest when she thought about her father, who had died five years ago. Unfortunately, there were some things magic simply could not overcome.

After a short while, Hermione moved along the wall, keeping well within the reach of her floating ball of light. It listlessly crawled along the ceiling, as though it wasn’t worried whatsoever about what might be waiting in the nearby dark. The hairs on her arms stood up and Hermione increased her pace, while continuing to work diligently. 

As each spell failed to reveal a hidden entrance or mechanism, her mind began to wander. 

“Must admit, I’m impressed.” Out of nowhere, Draco Malfoy materialized before her, causing Hermione to jump. Her ball of light bounced erratically before fizzling out; worst still, his sudden appearance caused her to curse loudly. Malfoy began chuckling at her creative word choices. Her heart had jumped high in her throat, and her breathing was very loud in the otherwise silent dungeons. “You’ve finally found a way to rid that unsightly bushy hair of yours of chizpurfles. Well done, you.”

“Would you kindly disappear? I’ve got a job to do!”

“Oh, yes, that’s quite apparent, thank you. Just what exact are you doing down here? Looking for souvenirs, hm?”

“Like I said, I’m doing my job. Now, leave me alone.” She cast another _Lumos_ spell and guided the ball upwards, turning her back on the annoying ghost. “Haven’t you better things to do than try to pester me to death?”

“Actually, no — no thanks to the blasted Boy-Who-Somehow-Managed-To-Live-Longer-Than-Me.”

“Longer than _I_ ,” she muttered under her breath, moving around him, doing her best to ignore his smirk. Hermione decided she would simply pay him no attention and hope he’d go away. What a joke, though, thinking anything where Malfoy was concerned would be simple. Between the vermin and the nuisance, she considered rescheduling this search for another time, hopefully when the dead were more dormant than right this moment. With a single nod to herself, Hermione headed back toward the stairs.

“Giving up already? How unlike you, Granger. Suppose old age has softened you up a bit, made you too weak to withstand a little manual labour, huh? Won’t your superiors be disappointed in you?”

Head held high, she ignored the prat as she climbed, allowing the light to gradually fade away. She didn’t look back, but rather imagined seeing him left alone down there, in the dark, with all the ghastly, hungry creatures eyeing him with delight. The wicked smile derived from that fantasy refused to leave her face for a rather long time afterwards.

••• ••• •••

A wall of ancient tomes towered on every side save one, allowing Hermione some room to get up and retrieve even more. Those she found personally interesting were beginning to outweigh the ones she intended to take back to the Ministry for further study. Truly, the Malfoy’s had possessed a wonderful, if wicked, collection, judging by what remained. If she allowed herself to look around for much longer, Hermione would begin to pity them, to some small degree. After their deaths but prior to the Ministry’s acquisition, Malfoy Manor had apparently been subjected to looters and vandals. The most valuable assets, according to the estate ledgers, were long gone. However, sufficient evidence implied that Dark artefacts likely remained, and Hermione had used her incredible skills to unearth several so far, despite how well they had been hidden. Still, the destruction around her tugged at her thoughts and heart every so often, so, she plodded deeper into discovering and cataloguing to tune it out.

By mid-afternoon, she had completed examining nearly half of the library, despite Draco Malfoy’s best efforts at distraction. When he hadn’t immediately appeared as she resumed her work following a pitiful excuse for breakfast, she counted herself blessed. It was short-lived, however. Apparently, the realization that he was a ghost, and all the benefits and abilities such a status entailed, kept him busy elsewhere for a time. What exactly he had done with that time was a mystery, one she had no curiosity about, and she dearly wished he would return to, but he instead decided she needed to be disturbed.

She had been furiously reading from a book, muttering aloud to a Quick Quill as it took notes, while two others dashed madly across an impossibly long scroll, recording the titles and publication details of each book within the library — both the Dark and the mundane — when he materialized up from beneath her table, directly through the book she was reading. 

Hermione screamed, her hands shielding her mouth in fright. All three Quills jolted in different directions and her inkpots upended, streaking thick black rivers across everything. With a stamp of her foot, she cursed him.

Malfoy howled hysterically, but it was the first and last time he would receive such a reaction. His subsequent attempts to repeat the fright went unacknowledged by Hermione. She didn’t so much as shoo him away after the third attempt, which only served to rile his temper and encourage his efforts. As much work as it had been, the results were rather disappointing. Next, he tried sitting down in her seat. He screwed up his face, concentrating as hard as he could without laughing at his own ingenious idea of appearing just before she sat down, which would, of course, force her to scream and fling everything she was carrying.

“Get out of my chair” was all she said, not even bothering to look his way. How the hell did she see him, he wondered, until he looked down and saw that he was as opaque as he’d been all day. _Dammit._ Nothing seemed to work on the stupid swot. She was impervious to his talents. Draco sneered. What was the point of being dead if he couldn’t scare the snot out of the bookworm? He longed for his wand, for his magic. Had he been capable of wieding that, Granger would have been hauling her inane arse out the front doors, wailing and preferably suffering some kind of permanent damage. 

When Draco finally admitted defeat, if only to himself, he chose to stay and watch her work. If the creative means of annoyance failed to raise even an eyebrow from the unresponsive Granger, then he’d just have to try a simpler method. 

Hermione could feel Malfoy glaring at her while she ate peanut butter on crackers, carefully whisking away any crumbs before they could leave greasy stains upon her own pieces of parchment. It had been nearly twenty minutes since he had stopped doing his pathetic tricks for attention and simply … hovered, which, by and far, was worse. Although she had received the highest marks in school and had no issue whatsoever with drawing the attention of both her professors and fellow classmates when necessary, Hermione didn’t like being watched like a hawk. She tried to ignore him; however, her thoughts continuously drifted back toward him. Thankfully, just her thoughts and not her eyes. 

Having lived for so many years in the magical world, she was accustomed, to a degree, with ghosts; yet, she couldn’t recall one quite like Draco Malfoy. Most she had had contact with she never knew prior to their spectral existence, but she had known this one. It was amazing how much he looked the way she remembered from when they were teenagers. In fact, he appeared to still be wearing most of his old Slytherin uniform. Stretching from his right hip all the way up towards his left shoulder was a tremendous tear in his white shirt, stained darkly with blood. It was the fatal curse given to him by her oldest friend, Harry. 

Whenever she thought about Malfoy dying as he had, she remembered how Harry had been afterwards — what he had said, what he had done with that awful book. Sometimes, she felt guilty for how she had behaved toward Harry, but looking at Malfoy now, she felt even worse for him. Not that Malfoy deserved her pity. He was a prat, a bully, and a mischievous rascal, always doing his best to aggravate her — even post-parting! Despite that, she realized that she held a smidgen of sympathy, but stronger still, a sense of guilt. The death of Draco Malfoy had ruined Harry’s life. He carried that guilt with him still and would have come very close indeed to a stint in Azkaban for it, had it not been for the testimonies of Dumbledore and others. 

Sixth-year was unbearable for them all, what with Dumbledore’s death during Harry’s trial, but she supposed it had been the worst for Draco. How long had he been here without being noticed? There was no mention of a spectral inhabitation in the Malfoy Manor file. Had he truly gone unnoticed or had she, somehow, inadvertently invoked him with her prodding? 

Her mind was a jumble of thoughts.

Hermione glanced up at him slowly. His gaze was somewhere in the distance, not truly seeing her. She took advantage of the moment to really look at him. She had neither admitted nor denied that she thought he was a bit handsome. He’d always been such a monster to her that she was ashamed to even think it. How crazy was it to have a bit of a crush on your worst enemy? She had, though, and he hadn’t lost much of those boyish good looks he’d been so blessed with, to her regret. 

What was she thinking? She was a thirty-four- year-old divorcee and he was _dead_! It didn’t get more unavailable than that! Such thoughts were highly inappropriate and unprofessional. She was here to perform her job and get out, not fraternize with the dead, no matter how good he might still look. She blushed at that thought, shaking her head furiously.

“Oh, forget it!” Flustered, she shoved aside the book she’d been pretending to scrutinize. Her outburst brought back his attention, and he looked momentarily displaced by her presence. Then the sneer came back. Yes, that was what she needed — his unceasing derision; it would surely snap her back to reality. As she stared back at him, she reflected that his colouring had faded to nearly the exact shade of his irises, a stormy grey with faint streaks of blue, she recalled. 

Hermione’s head fell forward onto the table in self-defeat. She was just so tired of this, of him, and of the entire mess.

“Malfoy,” she quietly, cautiously began a moment later, raising her head up slightly to face him. During his living years, he had been one of the peskiest nuisances she’d ever known; in death, he’d become far worse, and even more temperamental. “I know you want me gone — you’ve made that _quite_ evident.”

Malfoy crossed his arms as he listened, frowning in suspicion.

“I have absolutely no desire to linger here, in your home, any longer than necessary. Since we’re working towards the same conclusion, which is getting me out —” she raised her eyebrows for emphasis, still speaking slowly, carefully. He merely scoffed at her choice of words. “— wouldn’t it make sense for us to work _together_ to accomplish that?”

“Why would I possibly help you? I can’t stand you!”

She took a breath and held it, counting to ten before continuing. She rubbed at her eyes. Although she doubted it was possible, she didn’t want to make things any worse by yelling at him about how big of an idiot he was. Instead, she patiently explained. “As a Ministry employee, it is my duty to —”

Draco snickered and she rolled her eyes. It was just another reminder that she was, essentially, dealing with a child. With a stern frown, she continued. “— I am obligated to recover, analyse, catalogue, and remove any and all items from within this house that pertain to Dark magic. Obviously, I wasn’t the first to have such a task.” She indicated, with a casual flick of her hand, the wreckage surrounding them. Draco looked about, as though seeing the damage for the first time. Odd. “Along with that, er, assignment, I need to find — that is…”

Hermione pursed her lips in thought. If she outright told Malfoy that she needed to find Lucius’ secret study, would he tell her? Why should he, though? Even dead, he obviously still hated her. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage. 

She stared down where his feet ought to have been, seeing instead the faintest outline of his trousers. She’d never really stared at ghosts before, believing it to be just as rude as when you stared at the living. However, she was practically transfixed whenever she looked at Malfoy’s diaphanous being. The lower half of his body and the outer extremities were hazy and easily overlooked. Hermione’s eyes moved up his ghostly body, quickly darting beyond his death scar and up to his eyes. She remembered their former clarity and could almost imagine it now. 

Draco caught her staring but said nothing. His arms fell apart and hung limp at his sides. He, in turn, stared back at her, startled once more by just how much she had aged since he’d last seen her. He broke their connection then, turning away to examine his own transparent hands, trying to imagine what he might have looked like at her age. The exercise in regret irritated him.

“The sooner I finish, the sooner you’ll be rid of me,” she finally said quietly, placing her palms flat on the table, deliberately not looking at him. “Where is Lucius’ study, Malfoy?”

He spun angrily about. “How dare you, you bitch! You’re here to plunder my inheritance, all my worldly possessions!” 

“I told you, this is my job —”

“Oh, sod you and your fucking _job_. I couldn’t give a doxy’s arse about you or your bloody job! And what kind of person comes sneaking in the damn night into someone’s ancestral home, intending to steal everything of any monetary or sentimental value? They call those bastards thieves, Granger, and that’s all you are — a low-born Mudblood thief! Get out of my home!” he screeched, hands fisted as he zoomed closer toward her, enraged.

She drew her wand and took a defensive position, still seated, which made him bark with laughter. “Seriously, what damage do you think you could do to me? I’m already dead, thanks to your ignoramus pal. Did Potter put you up to this, petty theft? Why isn’t he here to finish me off, then? Why send you, you damn swot, to drive the final nails into my coffin by taking what little remains, hm?”

“Because that’s not his job, it’s mine —”

Draco laughed again. “So, you admit you’re nothing but a vile burglar. Well done, Granger. I hear acknowledgement is the first step.”

She actually growled at him. He noticed red sparks exploding just at the edges of her short hair. Her temper was nearly boiling over. Good. He was desperate for an outlet for all this rage she had inflicted upon him — simply by existing, but especially by the nerve of her entering his home, rummaging through his property. 

“What went wrong, Granger? Did Potter not want you, not want Weasley’s leftovers? Yeah, you were always sniffing around the Weasel, weren’t you? How pathetic! Tell me, is Weasley too bloody poor and impotent that you have to come here to steal all that’s rightfully mine, just to get rich? I’ll bet that’s it. Surely, being a Ministry peon doesn’t keep the taxman at bay, does it, and that boorish ginger can’t hold down a real job, can he?” Malfoy made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Or, perhaps, neither one would have you. That’s it, isn’t it, Granger? Potty and Weasel probably abandoned you before long, and who could blame them? Just look at you! So you’ve fallen back to your bookish boring ways, choosing to live vicariously through the belongings of the dead. No one gives a damn about you, do they? Did you ever consider switching for another Weasley? Perhaps even the She-Weasel! She always seemed… rather mannish. I bet you two would get along like a house on fire!”

“Oh, grow up, Malfoy. You have the maturity level of a —” she muttered then blushed, realizing what she let slip. When she lifted her gaze toward him, his pale eyes were practically bulging from their ghostly sockets.

“Did you really just tell me to grow up? Fuck you, Granger! Thanks to that bastard Potter, I never can grow up, can I? No! No, I’ll perpetually be sixteen bloody years old — dead! Dead and forgotten!”

Hermione growled as she furiously, futilely wiped her hands. “Oh, Malfoy, you infuriate me so… You’re a horrible, entitled little prat! Always whining about how someone else has done you an injustice. Well, have you ever considered that you could be at fault? No, of course not, because you’re — ohh!” She quickly shut her mouth, going so far as to bite her inner cheek while she counted to ten. And then counted again. And a third time for good measure. All the while, he slunked around the room, yammering on about how unpleasantly she stank up his home and how Potter meant pestilence, or some such rot. She did her best to tune him out, to calm herself. Arguing with a ghost was about as smart as arguing with a little child; she knew that, yet somehow Draco Malfoy had always managed to push her buttons. He was like the ink spotted on her hands: under her skin, all of the time, unable to be washed off. Like a miserable, regrettable tattoo.

Once she felt in control of her temper, she tried again, quietly. “Listen, Malfoy. What Harry did was beyond horrible; it was the worst thing that could have happened.” She spoke faster, seeing his furious scowl. She would have thought that after seventeen years, his outrage would have tapered off. “What you _don’t know_ is that he’s paid for his crime. Perhaps not to your satisfaction, but that’s not for either of us to decide.”

He looked at her as though she were head to food covered in Bubotuber puss. Hermione’s mouth snapped shut, her words cut off by his look. Just as she was shaping her mouth to ask, _‘What?’_ , he spoke.

“Should have known you’d take _his_ side. You always were his little pet, his little… lap dog. A _bitch_. His walking library. Always knew you did all of his work for him. What else did you do for the Boy-Who-Lived? What other sorts of … favours… did you do for him — him and that damned poor-boy, Weasel? Did they put that bloody obnoxious mouth of yours to good use? Nothing but Potter’s little Mudblood whore,” he hissed with disdain.

That last barb was the final straw. Hermione flew from her seat; her right hand empty yet raised high above her. She brought the splayed palm down to smack his pale cheek. Unfortunately, in her rage she momentarily forgot he was a ghost, and so the force of her swing flung her bodily through Malfoy. She hit the floor, hard. 

She lay there, sprawled and humiliated, while his laughter echoed around the dismal library, bouncing back and forth against the sparse shelves and curtainless windows, even through the recesses of her mind. She chose to stay on the floor, although she pulled herself into a tight ball, facing away from his derision.

After another moment, the room was quiet again, though the memory of his laughter hung like a foul odour. She refused to see if he still hovered behind her. She rather hoped that he’d had the decency to leave her alone, finally. Decency. She could almost laugh at such an impossible notion. She doubted any Malfoy ever knew, let alone had, any decency. 

Hermione wanted to shrink down into the scarred wood floors. It had been years since she had been so humiliated, made to feel so inferior. Nearly half her age, in fact — since the war. Somehow, she had forgotten how much abject loathing could hurt, especially when the person hated you simply for your heritage. Briefly, she considered walking away, just crawling to her feet, holding her head up long enough to Disapparate from the grounds, walking away from the assignment, from Malfoy Manor and its horrid inhabitant.

But she couldn’t do that. No matter what someone said or thought about her, she knew her worth and value. Why should the words of a dead _boy_ bother her so? Draco Malfoy had always known when and how to hurt her most, it seemed, and she’d forgotten until today how little she had missed the bastard. No one missed bullies like Draco Malfoy.

Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It dawned on her that Draco Malfoy … was lonely. Quickly, she sat up and turned, confirming that he had left at some point. The rain continued to beat softly against the windows while she devised a way to finish her job and leave Malfoy Manor better than she had found it.


	2. Chapter 2

He paid no mind to where he was headed, so long as she was out of his sight. Fucking Granger, coming here to ruin his life. No, wait. His… afterlife? Draco shook his head as if to clear it, not feeling the weight that once was there. His speed slowed as he considered his hands, noting how thin and translucent they were, as was the rest of him. Seventeen years? That couldn’t possibly be right. Perhaps he hadn’t had top marks in school, but Draco wasn’t an idiot. If he’d truly been dead for that long… Even the concept of being _dead_ didn’t seem real. 

As he hovered in the drawing room, his mind was plagued by the severity of his condition and his startlingly apparent oblivion. Where had he been all this time? Here, at home? Why hadn’t he seen his parents? Why weren’t they here now to comfort him and tell him what had happened? How had Granger been able to even enter the grounds if the wards were in place — they had to be in place because his father had used blood magic to create them. Unless…

She had said the Ministry acquired the manor. How was that possible unless his parents were dead as well? A terrible, phantom pain rang through his gut, traveling into his head, where it proceeded to knock him about. “Mother?” he whispered, his hands threading through and tugging at his hair. 

“Mother!” he screamed, racing through the dilapidated building that was once so grand and magnificent. His newfound ability was quite helpful as he passed effortlessly through broken walls and debris. What had happened to his home, his family? He was horrified by the destruction; yet, none of that mattered, so long as he found his mother and father. 

Before long, he found himself within his mother’s suite. It had not fared any better than the rest of the manor, it seemed. The bed appeared to have been burned at some point, the four posts tilted awkwardly toward a charred centre. Something scurried along the far wall, but Draco ignored it. Her long vanity was also destroyed, all of the mirrors cracked and gapped, every drawer opened or simply tossed aside, their contents nothing but a memory. None of her trinkets remained, either; however, Draco could clearly see his mother sitting there as she attached jewels to her ears. She was simple, elegant, and fine.

She was, rather. 

His heart clenched within his chest, paralyzing him, and it was a long while before he noticed the mirror again. His reflection was multiplied, faded and sparse. He moved as close to the remaining shards as possible, less afraid of the broken glass as he was of the broken soul staring back at him.

Who would do this — or rather, who did this to his home, their things? And what had become of his mother? Just looking at Granger, he knew she knew the truth of it; it was of course another matter completely to see if she’d be willing to share that knowledge. Draco turned his head in her direction, imagining her back at her work, cataloguing and collecting what little remained.

What about him? What did she plan to do with him, now that he was dead and practically defenceless? A vision of several pranks pulled by Peeves rolled past his eyes, many of which he’d laughed over until the tears formed, but none of which gave him much pleasure now. How was it that Peeves managed such nasty tricks?

Draco reached down for a shard of jade-coloured glass, watched as his spectral hand slipped straight through without any affect. He remembered that Peeves had been a poltergeist, not strictly a ghost like him. Draco pondered what exactly he was. Just a ghost, an apparition? A shade of Wiltshire? How droll.

The Bloody Baron had been useless, excepting when he managed to terrorize first-years effortlessly. And Peeves, too, as he recalled. Draco had wondered, years ago, what exact power the Baron had over the damned nuisance. Granted, he had been a frightening bastard, but what harm could he really effect, even on another entity like Peeves? Draco had never actually seen the Baron do anything other than seemingly threaten Peeves, and yet that always seemed to curtail the pain-the-in-arse’s intentions.

He eyed his faint reflection once more, practising his former sneer. Well enough for a living human being, he supposed, but it lacked the menace he once prided himself for. Obviously, he posed no threat to bloody Granger. How dare she completely disregard his intricate plots for alarming and disposing of her! The buggering bitch had always seemed immune to his will.

The memory of a hasty kiss returned like a bludger to the gut, and Draco swore he could smell citrus, could feel the warmth of another’s soft lips. Unconsciously, his lips pressed together, savouring the sensation of memory, for he knew in that moment that memory was all that was truly left to him now.

Draco shook his head to clear away the fog. A few more moments were wasted while he tried, unsuccessfully, to pick up or touch anything inside his mother’s suite. He would have thought that after seventeen years he’d be able to do something so insignificant as to affect his surroundings, but no!

Thunder shook the casement around the windows, drawing his attention. Before he realized, he was outside, skirting across the grounds. _It is raining, and I am not wet,_ he thought, watching the cold autumn rain pelt down through his hands, his body. He had no breath to fog up before him; his body was neither cold nor wet because he didn’t really have a form any longer. He was nothing, less than nothing. He was barely there, insignificant and unwanted. The gravity of his existence, for lack of a better word, brought about a horrible aching sensation, which perplexed him further. How could he hurt so much if he was truly nothing? 

If it were possible, he was certain he would have been sick all over himself.

What if she did not intend to do anything about him? As nice as the desire was for Granger to bugger off and never show her horse face again, what if no one else came? Or, what if others came — strangers, horrid Muggles, or vandals — people worse than she? At the moment, the only worse people Draco could imagine were Potter and Weasley, but surely they weren’t the worse? He shuddered, remembering the Dark Lord and his slick snake-like face. Whatever became of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he wondered. Draco assumed that he was _gone_ , or more likely, dead. With both Potter and especially Granger still alive, the Dark Lord had to be dead. Had Lord Voldemort managed to defeat the Boy-Who-Lived-Longer-Than-Draco-Malfoy, then all Mudbloods would have been killed. Including her.

Especially her.

He looked toward the second floor windows of the library, curious to know if she could see him, if she was packing up her belongings, _sans_ his father’s possessions, or if she was plodding along, heedless of him entirely. Could he appear and disappear at will? What magic remained within him, and whatever happened to his wand? Draco looked about the ground, as if by thinking of it, his wand would suddenly appear. 

His brow furrowed as he faced the distant gates to the manor. Could he leave if he wanted? Where would he go? He couldn’t recall if the Hogwarts ghosts were capable of leaving the school grounds. Could it be done, or was he a permanent resident of his decrepit home? The only person, living or dead, that he knew who could possibly know the answers was currently squirreled away within his library.

Magic was older than even necessity, and both the wizarding and Muggle worlds continued to make advancements. Seventeen years spent in oblivion; it was no wonder that Draco was an impotent ghost. He scowled, angry at his own word choice. What if he wasn’t trapped here necessarily, but rather, he was incapable of leaving? His eyes cut towards the second floor again, deliberating if she knew of a way to transport spectral beings. Seventeen years he could have spent mastering his new existence, but instead, he had no memory of the lost time. 

He nearly laughed, because abundant time was the only thing left to him, it seemed. 

The rain continued to fall, leaving no dry spot below him as it once had. Only two options remained for Draco, and neither were very appealing.

••• ••• •••

She found him sometime later in the long gallery, staring at the cracked wall. It didn’t feel like the appropriate time, after all, yet she couldn’t seem to make her legs move. She stood there waiting silently, glancing back and forth between his ghost and the bare wall, curious as to what he saw that she would never truly see. After some personal debate, she had come to apologize to Draco Malfoy — for an assortment of wrongs, both those she could and could not help. Perhaps he would scoff or ridicule her, and there was likely chance that apologizing would only incite his anger once again. However, she believed he deserved as much. When she had said what she’d rehearsed, she would simply leave. Hermione would deliver what had been recovered here and detail her experience within her report: that Malfoy Manor was devoid of most artefacts assumed to be present and that the necessary anti-Muggle precautions need not be arranged.

The words were pressing against the roof of her mouth when he startled her by speaking, still looking at the wall across from him.

“You asked about my father’s study,” he began, his voice low and thin, barely more than a whisper. Hermione could only nod her head slowly, stunned. “All right, then. But I have conditions.”

She held her breath, preparing to hear his likely ridiculous and impossible conditions. Not to mention humiliating. Eventually, she had to let out her breath. He still hadn’t spoken. The room was so quiet — the rain having finally tapered off — that at one point, she believed she had missed hearing him entirely. The long gallery pressed close around them both. Even the house itself seemed to be listening most carefully.

“I will grant you access to his study and even allow you to remove select items.” 

Hermione was immediately compelled to interrupt him, to remind him that she had full authority to remove items of her own choosing, based on their nature. Malfoy obviously anticipated her interjection: he raised a silencing hand, insisting she hear him out first. “There is much that you know nothing about, Granger, and I am the sole… person… capable of educating you in this regard. So much more than you could have possibly expected lies within,” he teased, in _sotto voce_. He turned toward her at last, yet did not look at her directly.

“You have information — knowledge about what has become of the world in my absence. I need to know. I need you to tell me. All of it.”

Hermione suspected her eyes must have boggled, given the way he smirked before continuing. “I know the opportunity to share the otherwise impenetrable contents of that humongous head of yours must not come about that often – especially not requested – but those are my terms. So?”

Her eyes narrowed. Hadn’t he mentioned conditions, as in more than one? She considered bringing up this very point, but a devious little voice within suggested denying him the chance. Perhaps he would forget whatever else it was he had intended to say? Could she believably claim plausible deniability? Not likely, and the greater part of her sense told her to remind him. But she could do that later, couldn’t she? Besides, what he was asking would surely be worth what lay within the study, right?

Hermione was flummoxed over his first condition. Where to begin? What exactly would he want to know? _Everything_ was such a broad, impossible word. How much could she even tell? Shortly after sixth-year, when Draco Malfoy had died — No, she mentally corrected herself, he had been killed — they had been off hunting Horcruxes, and the war had soon followed. Surely, he didn’t care to know anything about their long and often fruitless search? Why would any part of that torturous year matter to him, especially now? It wasn’t his concern, and neither was her life after the war, come to think of it.

No, she’d simply stick to the facts, the quantifiable data, public knowledge, all of the things those not as close as she, Harry, and Ron had been to the chaos would already know. Her traitorous brain supplied an image of Rita Skeeter, and suddenly, there was a bad taste in her mouth. She glared back at the ghost who hovered a metre or so above the mouldy, carpeted floor, waiting for her decision with inhuman patience. So much for that idea. Malfoy could easily sniff out her plan to withhold information, and then she’d be back to where she was half an hour ago, which she’d been perfectly satisfied with until Draco Sodding Malfoy had audaciously dangled such a tempting carrot.

_Damn him_ , she thought, before her hand covered her mouth, as though she’d spoken that thought aloud. It wasn’t right to damn the dead, even though she supposed the worst had already happened to him. How very rude of her. Warmth suffused her cheeks. 

This was ridiculous and a complete waste of time! What if there wasn’t a study after all? She’d been reckless enough to mention the possibility — _likelihood_ — of the secret study earlier. This was Malfoy. He was conniving enough to lead her to believe he was doing her a favour when, in fact, she’d be … what, exactly? Wasting more precious time recounting the events of nearly two decades? How was that his devious plan? What would he truly get out of it? Her mind came up blank, which for Hermione was an unnerving experience. Besides, only seconds ago, she was willing to chuck in the entire assignment. At least this way she’d leave Malfoy Manor with more than she would have otherwise. Hopefully.

She hadn’t realized she’d been pacing the long gallery came up to a stop. She recalled her earlier thought that Draco Malfoy was not only a lost soul trapped here on Earth but also very, very much alone. No one remained behind for him. Hermione, having grown up an only child just like him, could only imagine his childhood when compared to her own. She had been treated much like another adult even before attending Hogwarts. She had been somewhat lonely, but she’d not realized the extent until she,d made real, true friends. Had Draco ever had actual friends? The likelihood of any Slytherin being truly friendly was laughable…but also pitiable. 

She looked about the manor, trying to imagine a small boy growing up here with no one but Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy for examples of proper adult behaviour. He’d been a royal nightmare when they were kids, but should that stop her from behaving like the mature adult she was? 

And what if there was a secret study and she neglected that possibility all because of some idiotic sense of retribution? She was Hermione Granger, Unspeakable, and exceptional at her job. Was she about to let a ghost stand between her and her duty?

Hermione cleared her throat, recalling Malfoy’s earlier reaction to the word “duty.” Really childish. It was odd how often she had to remind herself that he was little more than a child still. But the strongest reason that tipped her thinking definitely over to one side was this: What if their roles had been reversed?

“Let’s see.” She sighed, flinging her hands up. “Where do we begin?”

••• ••• •••

After a relatively short bout of bickering back and forth between Hermione and Malfoy over who should begin, she finally acquiesced, deciding that it was simply easier. However, when she led him into the library, righting and mending a broken table that she pulled away from her work area for them to share, she was at a loss. 

Where should she begin? 

Malfoy gave the appearance of sitting across from her, although honestly, he was just hovering in a sitting position. He even placed his hands, palms down, upon the table, watching her, waiting. Should she start with the mundane or the important facts? What would he consider _important_ , though? The fates of his parents, naturally. Oh, but wouldn’t that upset him? Would he then rescind his offer? Hermione prided herself on being empathetic while tactful, yet in this particular situation, she was truly stumped.

Eventually, she took the chance and started small, informing the Malfoy scion who the current the Minister for Magic was, which teams had played in the Quidditch World Cup and who had won, and even the name of the new Royal heir. She prattled on for some time on current events, which obviously were of no interest whatsoever to her ghostly counterpart. As she continued, Malfoy’s head lowered to the point where he was glaring at her from beneath his pale eyebrows. 

She took the hint and blurted out what he obviously had been waiting to hear. “Lucius died during the Battle of Hogwarts, May of 1998,” she said. “And Narcissa hanged herself… in the hall.” 

Once the words came out, she held her breath, anxiously awaiting his reaction. After a moment, long enough for Malfoy to process her blunt words, she explained about the final battle between the students, professors, and the Order of the Phoenix against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, only to stop herself, apologize, and clumsily tried to mentally backtrack to the appropriate point in history that would help her story to make the most sense. 

A brief pause later, she waved her hands in an attempt to clear the confusion she’d created. Then, she started over, beginning with Draco Malfoy’s death. 

Once she started anew, setting aside her nerves and fears, the narrative of the past seventeen years did not take nearly as long as she expected. She attempted to neatly abbreviate some points, and blatantly skipped over other details that didn’t really concern her listener. What was more surprising was his reaction to her storytelling. Through it all, he never interrupted, which made it easier on Hermione. When she eventually ended her recitation of modern history, Draco Malfoy stared at her for a long time before finally replying, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

It was as though he’d slapped her. She actually jerked and a flush bloomed across her face. “Vulgarity is completely uncalled for, Malfo—”

“You have the audacity to come into my home, filching—”

“What?! I haven’t—!”

“—feeding me such utter bullshit and lies, expecting me to just accept it all. Meanwhile, you’re looting my home—”

“I haven’t taken anything!” Hermione yelled over him. “Look around you, Malfoy! Can’t you see?”

“I see _you_ , stashing my father’s books and my Mother’s heirloom jewelry—”

She growled. “Ohh, how dare you! I haven’t—”

“Liar!” he hissed, surging back into her personal space. “How dare _you_?!”

“I won’t be called a liar, Malfoy. I’m warning you!”

“Oh, you’re warning me, eh? Warning mm—” His lips pressed tightly together. She was momentarily distracted by his flaring nostrils, which ought not to be able to do that since he wasn’t living. “What could you possibly do to me, you foul bitch? I’m already dead, thanks to you!”

“Oh, I thought it was Harry’s fault,” she sneered in return.

“You’re all to blame! I had a life, Granger— flesh and blood and sweat and desires— a future! But all of that’s gone, and here you are to take what little remains of my life! Carrion, that’s what you are— disgusting vulture, pecking away until there’s nothing left of…”

His anger abated as quickly as it came on, leaving them both silently angry. Hermione had spent the better part of her life in libraries and was accustomed to the silence, but this particular silence was fraught with fury and resentment. Her skin practically itched from his glare. She resisted the urge to scratch, expecting him to make some other rotten remark about her carrying diseases or some such. Instead, she glared right back, almost daring him to carry on like the mad man he had become. The urge to send a Patronus to Croaker to remove this blasted assignment from her docket was at the forefront of her mind when Malfoy gave a heavy sigh and spoke again, this time much calmer.

“I suppose,” he began, crossing his arms over his chest and studying the floor, his lips pursed, “what little information of value you’ve managed to impart —” His eyes met hers when she snorted. He continued with a snippy tone. “— is worth a small token from my father’s collection.”

“Now, look here, Malfoy.” She pointed her finger accusingly, prepared to fire off her perfectly valid reasons why she was permitted to access anything and everything; however, he stopped her before she could utter another syllable.

He raised his right palm and abruptly disappeared. 

She awkwardly turned around in her chair, searching the otherwise empty room. More and more, the prospect of abandonment seemed ideal. Then, as suddenly as he disappeared, he’d reappeared, a sheepish look upon his face. It put her on her guard instantly. When had Draco Malfoy ever looked embarrassed? She reached for her wand and stayed alert.

“When we agreed to this pact, I did say conditions.”

Here it was, then, the other shoe, prepared to drop and crush her to bits. Hermione’s chest puffed up. She squeezed her wand, but never raised it from the table, displaying that she would use it, if necessary.

“It was my intention to exchange your useless information for an item, worth far more than the time you’ve wasted. Unfortunately…”

Hermione hadn’t realized she’d been leaning forward, anticipating what he would say next. In the tense moment, she corrected posture and urged him on with a severe look. Of course, it was absolutely wasted on the wrong ghost.

“I can’t bring it to you.”

“So, bring me to it. Easy enough,” she immediately replied, astonished that he had failed to see the obvious. 

Malfoy simply shook his head and turned away. 

Her frustration was palpable. “Okay, my turn.” Hermione stood up from her chair, making a point of crossing her own arms over her chest to stare him down. “Here’s how this will work. As I see it, we both want me out of here as soon as possible, and the best way to accomplish that is to simply allow me to finish my job. Life is too short for all of this… back and forth nonsense; it’s a waste of our time.”

“Your time,” he emphasized. “My time is limitless, Granger.” 

Once again, he made her stop and think before speaking. She chose her next words slowly, carefully. “Answer me truthfully, please. Is there a secret study somewhere I haven’t found on my own, with items that would pertain to my research, Draco?”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he nodded his head in affirmation. Perhaps it was the “please,” or maybe it was the sound of his own name — how long had it been since he last heart it? A strange ache began to throb within his chest, a phantom pang that left him momentarily speechless.

Granger did not seem to notice.

“All right, then, here is what I propose. If you show me what I want, I’ll help you. I admit that I’ve not done much research whatsoever on … ghosts.” She hesitated over that word, fearful of his response. Her head awkwardly bobbed side-to-side, apologetic. “But there must be something out there — or perhaps even within this very building — that could shed some light on — on your circumstance. Are we agreed?”

Several seconds passed without any change in his countenance, and she felt certain that it meant he was only toying with her, dragging out the time just to prove a point or irritate her further. She was mildly shocked when he nodded again. They were actually going to work together for a change. Relief swept over her and she found herself smiling at him. The smile was short-lived, however, for Draco scowled at her before zooming away, disappearing through the library door. She called out to him, or perhaps she only thought she had. The great emptiness left very little which she could be absolutely certain. Hermione returned to her work area and decided to continue where she had left off hours ago. 

Suddenly, the books and scrolls she’d collected couldn’t hold her interest. She eyed the sparse shelves along the walls, curiosity taking over.

••• ••• •••

Draco found himself lurking in the attic, alone in the dank and dark, away from her asinine voice and never-ending questions. Why should he bother to help her any more, especially when she was so ignorant? Fucking Mudblood — always intent on ruining his life. There had been so many opportunities during their school days when something horrible could have — _should have_ — happened to her, and yet, somehow, she always managed to escape, unscathed.

Like when the Chamber of Secrets had reopened. Oh, how he’d delighted in knowing she’d been petrified! Why couldn’t his father have secreted away a vicious beast within the belly of their home, reserved for just such occasions? Life truly wasn’t fair.

Why had he agreed so easily to her demands? There was no one in the world half as tedious, or ugly, as Granger, and yet, somehow, she managed to steamroll him — he’d given in with hardly a fight. She hadn’t been here a full day but still managed to extract everything readily available for the taking. Once she had access to the study, how long would that hold her over? The plethora of obscure, sinister items would surely detain her for a while, but Draco hadn’t decided if he would let her in.

He whirled around, flinging his arms uselessly. Hadn’t decided? It wasn’t up for discussion! Of course he would not allow her! Even though he had made a deal with her, a small voice in his head claimed, that it didn’t necessarily mean he had to hold up his end of the bargain. 

Oh, bugger. Dying young had certainly scrambled his brains. 

Draco flopped carelessly to the floor, too insignificant to even disturb the dust surrounding him. He was a little disturbed that his demands had concurred with her offer. Was she a bloody Legilimens? Draco really hoped not. Could Legilimency even work on a ghost? He had no idea. Could she discover something about this damned afterlife business that he couldn’t learn on his own? Not that he’d have much success, given that he couldn’t touch a damn thing around here. That disability was the first thing that needed rectifying, if possible. Was it even possible? Would he ever be able to learn how to move things, touch things? 

Perhaps touch her.

He muttered and shook his head, irritated by that line of thought. It had just been one moment — an accident. How had the memory managed to stay with him, even beyond death?

The attic disappeared as he gave into his memories of the Yule Ball, back in fourth-year. It was the night that he first saw Granger as a girl. A rather pretty girl, actually, with her hair tamed, and her twinkling blue, shimmery robes. He’d been so impressed with her transformation that he’d been speechless when she’d passed …on the arm of Viktor Krum. A grumbling wild thing had vibrated deep within his chest, and everything else — Potter, the other so-called champions, the renovated Great Hall, even Pansy — had vanished from view. Only Hermione Granger remained.

Most of that night was missing from his memory, except when Granger had exited the Great Hall, toward the end of the evening. She had been alone. Pansy had left him long before then, angry that he’d ignored her, his attention obviously elsewhere. Draco had been lurking behind a Christmas tree, the luminous holly berries casting a dark pink glow across him, finishing a cup of punch that desperately needed some kick to it. When Granger had passed nearby, he’d noticed a deep blush on her cheeks, a small frown pulling on the corners of her mouth. Something had obviously upset her — Weasel, no doubt — and she looked to be in a hurry. 

He had intended to rub salt in her wounds, to mock her or Krum. Really, he had; except, in that moment he found himself snatching her hand as it dangled by her side. In seconds, he had her in the corner with him, away from prying eyes. As she turned to berate the idiot who’d grabbed her, Draco had kissed her.

His heart had seemed to stop in his chest as his lips pressed harshly against her softer ones. His cup tossed aside, both hands had been free to clutch at her hips, holding her in place. He pressed her up against the wall. 

The moment had lingered on, and she didn’t pull away. For a moment, he had been almost certain she would struggle, would wiggle out of his hold and slap him, as she had done the year before. Instead, her mouth opened slightly. Encouraged by this, Draco had moaned, turning his head to kiss her deeper, his tongue finding hers. He had been vaguely aware of her hands cupping his back lightly, hesitantly. When their tongues met, he had moaned again, fisting her robes. The muscles in his forearms had ached. 

Something else had ached as well.

A group of Hufflepuff girls had run past their Christmas tree, giggling and shrieking. He hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her, but she had pulled away. Before he could speak, his hands had reached feebly for her as she scurried off. She’d never said a word, never looked back. Draco’s lips had been hot and swollen to the touch. He’d relished the taste of her cherry lip-gloss. 

Even now, Draco swore he could taste it still.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time he descended from the musty attic, Granger had already assembled a collection of books on that recently repaired table. He made no noise whatsoever as he approached, an added benefit of being little more than air. His silence granted him the opportunity to study her.

She was older but not so much, not harsh or wretched. Softer, perhaps; an ancient feeling stirred within his chest. Too bad such sensations were impossible to enjoy, let alone act upon. 

He came to a stop a short distance behind her; she was still oblivious to his presence. Very faintly, he could make out the mutterings under her breath as she scanned the index of a rather large book, one he did not recognize. Her voice was so soft, meant only for herself, yet he could hear her. Death had enhanced his senses, it seemed. 

She really was trying to help him.

Draco considered the witch before him. It was an inescapable fact that she had been born a Mudblood, but honestly, was that her fault? One couldn’t choose one’s parents. She was also supposedly brilliant; all of their professors, save one, used to praise her intelligence so much that it was nauseating. And if she was speaking the truth about being an Unspeakable, then she would have to be. As his father’s son, Draco learned all Ministry employees were as crooked as a hag’s broken back, easily bought and sold, silenced and forgotten when their uses expired. However, Granger was different, always had been. It was plausible that the Ministry still festered with the vermin his father had controlled, but there was the distinct — if slight — possibility that changes had occurred during his father’s absence. Positive changes, it would seem, if Granger could be considered evidence. 

So much had changed without him.

Granger slammed the book shut suddenly, startling him as she huffed before reaching for her small, beaded bag. No wonder he didn’t recognize the book; she had apparently packed a small library. He could hear odd noises coming from that bag of hers as Granger burrowed deeper. With a triumphant bark, she retrieved another similar book and proceeded to the back pages. 

Her tenacity was unnerving. Not for the first time, Draco wondered what had become of her during these last several years. How was it she was an Unspeakable? It was not a position he would have ever suspected her taking on, considering how much she talked in class, taking great pains to impress all of those old, blathering fools at Hogwarts. Looking back now, he supposed the occupation he would have guessed was spinster librarian, but obviously, that was wrong. Was she married now, to Weasel perhaps? How many brats had she produced for that pathetic yet unbelievably prodigious family?

Anger caused his fist to clench tightly. Why should he care if she was married and burdened with a dozen or so children? It wasn’t as if he actually held an interest in such things, especially now that he was less than a forgotten stain on history. He supposed his sudden interest arose because he’d once been expected to carry on his prestigious family name. However, although he and Pansy had been willing to scratch each other’s itches on occasion, he’d never really considered that future for himself. Instead, he believed he would supersede his father, to become a highly respected — and more importantly, feared — leader, second only to the Dark Lord. He’d once imagined himself eventually surpassing that reptilian bastard. 

He wondered, had Potter not murdered him, if he’d have completed the first task given to him as a fledgling Death Eater? At the time of his death, things had not been going according to plan. In fact, as he recalled, he’d been venting his frustrations to his friend Myrtle just moments before Potter had burst into the lavatory.

Myrtle had listened to him, had tried to ease his doubts. He remembered how cold her hands had been upon his back when she consoled him. Before Myrtle, no one had ever cared. When Potter burst in, seeing him in that unspeakable state, being consoled by a dead Mudblood… Oh, he’d been so angry; he’d seen nothing but red. What might have been different, had he not aimed that first curse but rather had asked Potter for help? How much longer could he have lived, considering the Dark Lord’s threats? Would he have possibly lived to see age thirty-four, as Granger had done?

All of this brooding did him no good, he decided, so he made his presence known. 

After a small jump, Granger smiled and said, “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

••• ••• •••

The pair stayed at their table for several hours as Granger painstakingly scanned dozens of books from both her own extensive collection and the few remaining from the Malfoy one. Several times, she hinted at the possibilities hidden away within Lucius’ secret study, but he simply ignored her, choosing instead to read the pages she laid out before him.

Draco’s frustration grew every time he needed her to turn a page for him. When she could practically smell his boiling tension, she faced him, suggesting that he turn that very distracting frustration into something productive, like concentration. At his querulous look, she clarified, “Turn the page, Malfoy.”

After glaring at her and calling her a handful of derogatory names that she ignored, Granger continued to insist until finally he tried. As expected, his hand dove straight through the book. She made him try again. And again, instructing him to really concentrate, as though he wasn’t already. Draco focused steadily on the book, envisioning what turning the page would look like, feel like. His fingers hovered near the edge of the pages, and for a second, he could have sworn he could feel the rough parchment. A thrill zinged through him as he eventually made contact. But then his fingers once again moved through the page.

Somehow, Granger seemed more disappointed than he was. Thankfully, she didn’t try to placate him. Instead, she returned to her own text after charming the book to obey his voice commands. He stared sightlessly down at the patient book for a long time. Finally, he took advantage of her not watching to try again. Malfoys didn’t give up without a fight.

Trying harder than he ever had back in school, Draco focused on his fingertip as it approached the page, desperately willing it to move, to feel the paper against the tip. For several uninterrupted minutes he tried, until he noticed she was deliberately not noticing. With a growl, he left the table.

Hermione didn’t bother to call after him. She plodded on, jotting down notes on an ever-growing piece of parchment.

An hour or so later, he returned, as if nothing had happened. A small part of her regretted pushing him, but honestly, he needed the encouragement to better himself. If what she was reading was right, it was possible for incorporeal beings to physically affect the living world. Turning a page was small potatoes compared to his likely potential. Regardless of that minor setback, Hermione believed he was fully capable of doing so much. They just had to work harder at it.

Or rather, he did. She really shouldn’t be thinking of them as a team. Hermione had always worked best on her own, which was one of the most ideal conditions of her job. And her desire to help Malfoy had nothing to do with pity, either. No, she thought she understood Draco Malfoy on some level, in the need to dominate, to be on top. She could recall all the times back at Hogwarts when she’d bettered him and how much easier that had become during their final year together. Harry had gone on about Malfoy being a Death Eater on a mission for Voldemort, but neither she nor Ron truly believed him until the truth came out once Malfoy was deceased.

The fear of what would happen to Harry overwhelmed them all, despite Dumbledore’s best efforts. Had it not been for him, Harry would surely have been Kissed and the entire world would have been lost. Dumbledore had taken care of almost everything before he died, guiding Harry toward his quest to destroy Voldemort once and for all. 

So much had been lost that year to save the world.

Hermione welcomed Malfoy back with a small smile and a new book, charmed and ready, and they both pretended everything was normal again. 

He gave her a questioning look when he noticed the book of poetry. With her nose upturned, she said, “It was listed in the bibliography” and left it at that. She wasn’t entirely sure if she imagined his smirk or not, but soon she was engrossed in the poem, mentioned in a previous book, _Sweet William’s Ghost_. 

Written in Middle English, the ballad told the tale of William, a ghost returning to his betrothed, Margaret, who would not release him from his promise. She refused to let him leave her side until he kissed her. Despite his warnings that a kiss from the dead would damn her unto death as well, Margaret insisted he marry her, lie with her. Hermione read and reread the ballad, dissatisfied with the ending and perplexed by its meaning.

She turned to Malfoy and read it aloud, hoping for another take on the poem. 

“I can’t believe you don’t see it,” he said. Astonished, she pestered him to explain, and finally, he added, “It’s really quite obvious, Granger. The reference here is literal: the dead and the living cannot coexist without hurting one another. Her longing for him and blatant refusal to release him from their engagement was torture, literal torture, for him in Hell. He came back, begging to be released, and instead, like a typical woman, she damned them both.”

“Oh,” she answered. Her brow furrowed. “Actually, I did get that. Must have been looking too deeply for symbolism or some significance.”

“Well, Granger, sometimes the obvious answer is the only answer. Don’t overthink it,” he replied and left her pondering the poem and its warning.

••• ••• •••

The afternoon faded quickly into evening, and soon full dark. Eventually, Granger called for a break, the signs of disappointment etched around her frowning face. She announced that she needed both food and a change of scenery. From her bag, she retrieved a can of soup and some crackers. Malfoy led the way down to the abandoned kitchen. After a few swishes and flicks of her wand, the room immediately sprang to life, cleaning itself.

Malfoy envied even that small display of magic but said nothing. All of his attempts had so far failed. _But only so far_. Granger already had an effect on him, her positive attitude nearly as contagious as dragon pox. He smirked and shook his head as he asked her more about the world today, skirting the more personal questions, despite his interest in the answers to those.

By the time the soup was gone, the pair had become friendly, occasionally laughing at something the other said. The mounted clock announced the late hour. Malfoy looked at Granger, a hesitant smile appearing around the corners of his eyes.

“I suppose we should get back to work,” she offered wearily, using both hands to raise herself from the chair.

“No, it can wait, Granger. It’s been a very long day.”

“I thought time didn’t matter to you?” Her eyes widened in embarrassment.

Malfoy smiled reassuringly.

“You need rest in order to give your best, and we both know I need you at your best.”

She stared into his eyes, returning his smile slowly. She flicked her wand absently and walked out of the kitchen, ignoring the noise as it cleaned itself up. Malfoy escorted her to his old bedroom suite, recalling aloud all the many portraits of ancestors and magnificent art pieces that had graced the corridors. Their pace was languid, due in part to the lateness of the hour but also to their newfound comfort level. Eventually, they reached the suite, and stood outside the entry.

Granger turned to face him, and he noticed a slight blush to her faintly-freckled cheeks. What he wouldn’t give to be able to cup those cheeks, to feel her warmth against his chilled hands. “This is your room,” she quietly said, looking down. He nodded. “Shouldn’t I find another? It would be no trouble…” Her words drifted off as she met his eyes. Malfoy pursed his lips and refused her offer without a word, still holding her gaze. “Where… where do you go… at night, Draco?”

He edged in closer; she leaned against the door frame; their faces so close to each other’s. Both took the opportunity to enjoy the view. 

“Oh,” he whispered, “I’ll be around, possibly rattling some chains down in the dungeons. Must learn how to focus my energies, no?” 

His attempt at humour like a sharp needle, broke the fragile moment.

Granger became flustered; her eyes darted away. Draco cursed himself for being so stupid. Before she could open the door to escape the awkward moment, Draco reached a hand up to lightly skim her hair. To his disappointment, he couldn’t feel it; however, she somehow felt him. She trembled. Her chin jerked upward. Instinctively, he leaned closer. He wanted desperately to kiss her goodnight. 

His eyes closed just before he reached her. Her sharp intake of breath rang in his ears, but he avoided her inviting lips, instead grazing her cheek with the tip of his nose. He pulled back and opened his eyes. Hers were still closed, her mouth slightly open. He wanted more, and judging by how she lingered there, so did she, but for now, it was enough. 

Malfoy’s chest constricted before he whispered, “Good night, Hermione.”

••• ••• •••

Hermione lay in bed, staring up at the ravaged canopy, thinking. There had to be something she’d overlooked, some account that detailed how Draco could harness his spectral powers and be able to leave Malfoy Manor. Although neither had mentioned it again, she felt certain he was exceedingly more concerned about what might happen if others were to come here, possibly even to try to live here. Honestly, she didn’t believe anything would happen to his being, per se, but she found the idea of his being completely defenceless unsettling.

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep unless she looked it up, Hermione flung off the tattered covers and went back to the library.

••• ••• •••

The candle-light was barely bright enough to illuminate the pages before her, so she shouldn’t have been surprised when Draco snuck up on her. He seemed to simply materialize from the shadows. Hermione cursed, and he laughed, raising his arms in mock surrender. She was pleasantly surprised at the sound, at least.

“What are you doing?”

“Well.” She sighed, blowing her long bangs out of her eyes. “I had a thought… I wanted to check Shimpling’s book again, because I wasn’t completely convinced that his theory was absolute.”

“I see,” he quietly replied. His hushed voice forced her to keep hers low as well, as though they might disturb the house. Draco stood absolutely still, like a living painting, watching her. Strangely enough, she didn’t feel uncomfortable under his glacial stare.

“Here, listen to this,” she said. “According to Shimpling, witches and wizards who are deceased and yet remain among the living are not all together void of their previous magical abilities. He relates it to a form of non-verbal magic but declares that that is highly difficult to achieve, since ghosts do not have wands anymore. _Highly difficult_ , but not impossible.”

“So, you’re saying that I ought to be capable … if I had a wand? That’s all?” He looked at her skeptically. She knew he must be recalling his earlier failure. 

“In essence, yes,” she hedged. Her mouth quirked as she considered her next words. “I know what you’re thinking, but perhaps we went about it the wrong way, perh—”

“How am I supposed to hold a wand if I can’t touch it?” His tone was less pugnacious, more slightly mocking. He never gave her the chance to reply. “Fortunately, I have all the time in the world to discover the answers to all these confounding mysteries. I have the coming eons to perfect my non-verbal, incorporeal methods. You, however… your time here is short.”

She met his stare and held it for a long time. The low candle light gave him the appearance of life, a warm glow to his translucent skin. She wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but suddenly he was much, much closer, searching her eyes, her face. Hermione held her breath, her heart thudding against her ribs, her body realizing seconds before her brain knew exactly what was happening.

“Doubtful you’d remember,” he began, his voice low, just above a whisper. It made her pulse race. “The day we passed on the stairs during fifth-year. For once, you weren’t with Potty or Weasel but with one of the Patil twins and that girl with the infernal braids.” Hermione bit back the urge to supply her friend’s name. “I always hated when girls travelled together, like a flock of Fwoopers. That one in particular, her voice was so annoying that I nearly docked her House points for damaging my ears. But whatever she said, it made you smile, and … I couldn’t move. I stood there, staring at your broad smile, noticing that your teeth weren’t as bad as I used to think, and … I wanted you, Granger.”

She couldn’t move, for if she did, she’d wake up. She had to be asleep, perhaps having fallen asleep here at the table. In any case, she most definitely could not be hearing Malfoy’s story now. He was no longer looking at her face but rather her hand on her lap. Unconsciously, she fisted it, drawing his eyes to hers again.

“You covered your mouth to hide your laughter, and it took everything in me to not reach out to stop you. I remember thinking ‘how could you possibly hide that beautiful smile, that cheerful laugh?’ It felt like something broke within me when I heard it, Granger.

“But then that bastard, Crabbe, bumped into me, nearly knocking me arse over kettle. Of course, I had to deal with him then, and before I’d hardly begun to tear into him, you’d passed by.” He closed his eyes and appeared to be sniffing the air near her. “I can still remember the scent of your hair— citrus, sharp— can taste it on my tongue. I remembered your kiss, the way you felt beneath my hands, and everything else be damned; I wanted you so badly! I actually reached out for you, caught the end of those curls. I wanted to pull you back against me, to feel your hands running down my back as I kissed you again. But I froze.”

Hermione held her breath, completely entranced and afraid to move, or else this spell he was weaving would break.

“You’ve no idea how hard it was to let you walk away, to not say something— anything— to get you to turn back and come with me. I wanted to taste you, to feel your skin against mine, nothing between us. I wanted to breathe deeply in that wild hair. It didn’t matter— nothing mattered— for that single moment, but you slipped away. You were gone. I doubted everything then, especially our kiss behind the tree. Had it really happened, or did I simply imagine it all?” He met her eyes again, a pained expression there. “Was any of it real, Hermione?”

Hermione’s mouth was completely dry. She could hardly swallow, let alone respond. She had no idea what place in time he was talking about, but she could clearly imagine the scene unfolding in her head. All of a sudden, she was very warm; her body felt almost liquid, relaxed. 

_Don’t overthink it._

Hermione reached up and cupped his cheek as best she could. She could feel the cooler air radiating from him, understood he was no longer flesh and blood like she was; and yet, she ached for him. Her breath was coming fast now, and with a rush, she said his name. “Oh, Draco.”

Draco shut his eyes, squeezing tightly as though in pain or fear. Hermione’s avid mind supplied her own fantasy. She imagined tugging Draco’s disheveled tie loose, sliding it through the stiff collar of his ravaged, bloody shirt. She wanted to see his scar, his never-healing scar, and try to mend it with her magic. With her kisses. 

Her other index finger stretched out, nearly touching his chest through the opening of his shirt. Draco’s eyes opened at her nearness. Although he could not actually feel her, he could sense her. 

“Don’t” was all he managed to say, his eyes wide and frightened. 

She knew why he stopped her. Just like Margaret and William, she was tempting the grave. Hermione knew better, but the time for thinking was over. Instead, she pulled back and began to slowly unbutton her own top. She watched him watching her, how he fixated he was on her every move. In the back of her mind, she knew they couldn’t do this, shouldn’t do this, but between their fantasies and the way he gazed hungrily down at her breasts peeking out of her pyjama top, Hermione was too worked up to stop.

When the last button had come undone, she shifted the top off one shoulder then the other, keeping her eyes on his. She took a sharp intake of breath when his pale hand reached out to cup her right breast. He never quite made contact, but she could feel the coolness, the nearness of him. The skin around her pink nipples pebbled and hardened, the sensation tugging straight down into her knickers. Hermione took the opportunity to let her fingers also skim his body, regretting that she could see so little of his bare skin. She ached to touch him, to actually feel him.

Draco shuddered, and she sighed. The edges of his being were so faint, so translucent that she could see the far side of the library almost perfectly through his shoulder. His once pale blue eyes were focused intently upon her body, sparking with anticipation and excitement. Her breathing sped up. Losing her focus, Hermione tried to grab his shoulder and failed. It felt as though she’d plunged her hand directly into ice water. 

Draco pulled back from her then. She could have kicked herself for being so reckless. 

Without another thought, Hermione reached both arms out and drew herself as close as humanly possible to him, wrapping her arms around his back. She tilted her head to the side as if to rest upon his shoulder and sighed again. She tried to imagine how he would have smelled— clean, spicy, perhaps. Hermione couldn’t remember how he smelled at the Yule Ball, but she did recall the sharp scent of the Douglas Fir they’d been behind. 

Eventually, she thought she felt him hold her in return. His unnatural coolness chilled her terribly, but she refused to let him go. She felt his hand running slowly up and down her back. The hairs on her bare skin stood at attention, and she suppressed a shudder. Her heart was frantically beating in her chest, and she desperately needed to release the tension within, but right now, what they both needed most of all was comfort and support. “I’m here, I feel you” she mouthed against his neck, wishing more than anything that they could truly hold one another.

••• ••• •••

Just before dawn, Hermione awoke. She paced between the bed and the far window, her teeth nibbling at her chapped lips. To say she was confused was an understatement. For starters, Draco was a ghost, little more than a living memory. Secondly, he was just a _boy_ , not even considered an adult before he died, and she was entirely too old to entertain such thoughts as she had had all night long. Not to mention what else she’d shared. She didn’t even know what to think about what had almost happened last night.

Mortified, she blushed again. It was so very, very wrong, both morally and professionally. She must have truly lost her mind. 

What would Harry do in this situation? He certainly wouldn’t have let Draco Malfoy touch his breasts, for one thing, although that image nearly made her giggle. No, she couldn’t compare herself to Harry, especially when it came to Malfoy. Her desperate mind swapped Ginny for Harry, but she immediately regretted it. Flashes of exactly what _Ginny_ would have done in Hermione’s shoes paraded across her scandalized mind and she was blushed even more.

She flung herself down into a mouldering chair, biting back a scream of frustration. This was utterly ridiculous, this … fawning over a ghost! Hermione Granger was a successful witch, surrounded by the best friends anyone could ever hope for, and essentially capable of having her pick of men. So why was she mooning over a dead one?

This… whatever this was with Malfoy… this was temporary insanity and misplaced emotions triggered by the excitement of the task at hand, combined with the discovery of Malfoy’s current state. Along with a great big dose of repressed teenage hormones. Draco Malfoy had always been able to sear her with his cool gaze, his perfectly obnoxious smirk— not to mention his roguish good looks. And despite all of his nasty japes and general villainy, there had never really been much heat to his words.

His kiss, on the other hand…

No, no, she refused to indulge those thoughts again! Even dead, Draco had managed a great deal of heat last night.

This was all his fault! Why had he kissed her if he swore to be so disgusted by her? Hermione knew that when it came to attraction, logic had very little say in the matter, but Draco Malfoy … fancying her? It was the most ridiculous and perplexing notion she’d ever had, and obviously it had yet to be resolved.

That was it! Why had it taken her so long to realize it? When he had died, Draco must have retained his confused attraction for her, carrying it over into the afterlife. Naturally! All of these passing years had had no effect on him. Surely now that he was “alive,” it would have time to pass, just like all passing fancies did. Or, perhaps it might have if she hadn’t shoved her breasts in his face.

So, what was her excuse? There had to be a reasonable explanation for her behaviour toward Draco Malfoy.

She was just too empathetic. Or, pathetic, more like.

Hermione stood up and walked toward the broken mirror. All these years, she mused. Once, she would have scoffed at the idea, but looking back at her reflection now, she wondered. She wasn’t a hag, by any means, but she also wasn’t seventeen anymore. Her face was softer, rounder; the wrinkles appearing around her mouth whenever she smiled weren’t half as bad as those around her eyes. Hermione believed she’d improved with age, but as she ruthlessly stared herself down, she noticed things she’d wilfully ignored, such as her hands. The skin had never been as soft as Lavender Brown’s, but they also weren’t as calloused as Ginny’s, who had clutched a broom handle for a living for over a dozen years. Hermione’s hands were dry, their backs crisscrossed with a million little crevices and faint freckles. No amount of lotion or potion seemed to help, either. Here were the effects of both age and her predilection toward research, parchment, and books.

Thinking back, Hermione could have sworn her hands had been softer when she was younger, smoother even, but she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps after this assignment was completed, she’d stop by Luna’s shop for a little attention. Although she didn’t consider herself very girly, the years she’d spent ignoring her skin had caught up with her. She was simply reaping what she couldn’t be bothered to sow long ago, when youth was a luxury and skincare was the least of her concerns. 

None of it ought to concern her now. She shook herself free from these self-deprecating thoughts and began dressing. She allowed her mind to wander. Hermione couldn’t clearly remember what happened afterward, or even every detail of her Yule Ball date with Viktor Krum, but she could remember Draco’s passionate and surprising kiss. She remembered hoping it was Ron, whom she had wanted to go with, whom she had wanted to kiss for nearly two years. Having been kissed already by Viktor, she knew it wasn’t him, but she had been absolutely gobsmacked when she saw who was actually was kissing her behind the Christmas tree.

Oh, the way his hands hat clutched her sides, the way his mouth tasted. For an endless moment, there had been nothing else in the world other than Draco’s mouth upon hers. His desperation had been contagious, and she never wanted it to end, that much she could still recall. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, she’d fled. She wasn’t sure why, or how, exactly, but she’d known she had to leave, to run away and not look back; if she looked back, she was certain he’d be laughing at her. She had never been so afraid than in that moment —of him and of herself, as well. 

It had been a mistake, of course, and she knew her tenuous heart would have shattered into a million pieces if she’d heard his laughter, or disgust, when he realized he had kissed the wrong witch. She had fervently believed it’d been a mistake until just last night.

Hermione had carried the memory of that searing kiss with her for months, losing the exact taste of his mouth with each passing day, until the world crashed down around them all at the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. That had been the beginning of the end. It had been the end of all girlish endeavours as well— the few she’d ever allowed, anyway. Besides, making moony eyes at the asinine Slytherin would hardly have been wise in the light of the Dark Lord’s return. Everything seemed to snowball after the tournament, and now here she was, standing on the opposite end of the Second Wizarding War, somewhere she would scarcely have allowed herself to be or even imagine. Here she was, harbouring a crush for Draco Buggering Malfoy. Surprisingly, he had apparently kept a torch for her all these years, even unto death.

She collapsed back into the chair, throwing her head into her hands. Absolutely ridiculous.


	4. Chapter 4

She waited for him in the library. Hermione left all thoughts concerning what had happened last evening in the bedroom. Now was definitely not the time. She had to move on, to continue the project and leave all else behind. And to studiously avoid the table upon which they’d nearly snogged one another. 

For the moment, at least. 

Hermione used her wand to levitate all of their research onto yet another table she had hastily repaired, one that kept that other table well out of view. Everything readily accessible on the subject of ghosts she had already gone through, her parchments collated into tidy scrolls and shrunken down, and now she was left with nothing to do. Mentally, she perused the shelves of Hogwartss library, deliberating if she’d exhausted all avenues concerning the afterlife. Perhaps she could look again in her department’s collection.

Excepting what, hopefully, remained within Lucius’ secret study, Hermione’s original task was complete. Somehow, though, Dark artefacts with the ability to cause immense suffering no longer seemed to hold her interest.

All of this supposition of what existed in the collection was simply a means to prevent her mind from speculating on Draco Malfoy’s return. Where did he stand in all of this? What did he expect in return for his generous offer of Lucius’ personal collection? She hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might rescind that offer now. Perhaps she was thinking too much about last night. Perhaps she’d imagined it, him lingering in her doorway, his admissions of desire, her boldness here in this very room. _Don’t overthink it._

What if this was an elaborate trick? 

Draco Malfoy had a temper like a rotten troll. He’d been truly nasty when she first arrived. People simply did not turn about as quickly as he supposedly had. Could this all be some setup, to lock her in and throw away the key where no one would think to look for her? What if he resented her now? Again, she was being ridiculous! Weeks ago, she submitted her Malfoy Manor proposal to Croaker, which included the suspicions of a secret study, so if she were to go missing, Croaker would check up on her. At least, she thought he would. Surely, somebody would. 

Besides, why should she be afraid of Malfoy? He was dead, after all. The thought stung her. Hermione had had an entire lifetime to learn when introspection needed to cease to prevent turning in endless circles, and so she tried to empty her mind, choosing instead to double check the contents of her bag. 

Malfoy might rage and roar, but Hermione knew she wasn’t in any real danger. Even so, it was better to be cautious than dead. “Constant vigilance!” as Moody would say. She pulled out her wand from her sleeve holster. 

Shortly thereafter, Draco appeared. Was he actually smiling? Her fingers curled around her wand handle automatically, afraid to let herself believe everything could be all right. He hovered near the doorway, staring back at her. It made her a bit self-conscious, but she refused to give into the urge to check herself. Instead, she raised one questioning eyebrow and remained painfully quiet, waiting for him to make the next move. 

Draco didn’t fail. He quickly slid into the room and stated, “Follow me.”

Hermione scrambled from her chair, worried he would zoom off too fast for her to follow. Thankfully, she worried for nothing, although she swore she heard him sniggering behind her back as she fumbled with her bag, parchment and quills. She ignored him. With her back stiff as a plank, she cleared her throat and did as instructed.

“Over the last several days, you’ve inspected my historic home from top to bottom,” he began, floating backwards into the long galleryso that he could face. Hermione nodded, a bit surprised at his nonchalance. She really did think too much. “And you found no evidence of a supposedly _secret study_.” It wasn’t a question, so she made no reply. “Why are you so certain that such a place exists?”

“Because you admitted as much last night.” 

“Before then,” he clarified, with a roll of his eyes. “What made you so certain?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Lucius Malfoy was an affluent wizard and known collector of rare and Dark objects and texts. According to his estate records, several notorious items from this collection have yet to resurface.”

“Couldn’t they have been stored at Gringotts or elsewhere?”

“That possibility was considered and dismissed upon inspection of the Malfoy vaults. With no living relatives, the vaults’ contents were either auctioned off or donated, the proceeds given to various charities and funds benefitting war victims, as reparations for the Malfoy and Black families’ participation in the Second Wizarding War. The Dark objects considered too dangerous to be released to the public were retrieved prior to that and taken into custody by the Ministry of Magic.”

“In any of your documents, have you found any mention of this supposed study?”

“No.”

“Then why do you persist, even when your superiors don’t agree with your suppositions?”

“Because,” she responded with a huff, “despite the lack of physical evidence, Lucius Malfoy was a proud and possessive man of exceeding wealth and power. He was a trusted confidante of Voldemort, and it was proven that he had been entrusted with the retaining of at least one Horcrux created by Voldemort, as well as several other rare items that appealed to the darker nature of some wizards— items which _were_ included on the estate holdings documentation but never found.”

Draco cut his eyes across the long gallery before asking, “Isn’t it possible vandals that made off with these items?”

Hermione pursed her lips. “That possibility is very slight. Had that been the case, _some_ of them would have made an appearance during the last fifteen years.” She gave him a pointed, _isn’t it obvious_ look and then smirked.

He returned her look, and she smiled. 

“Have I proven myself worthy yet, Draco? Do I pass the test?”

“Just one more question,” he said, moving to hover just behind her. The hairs on her arms rose when his cool hands skirted over them. She closed her eyes and held her breath when he leaned toward her ear and whispered, “What do you know about … Unplottability?”

Hermione gasped. Of course! She had considered the possibility of an Unplottable location but had been too distracted by Draco’s antics to get that far. Unless the location was shared, its secret would not be revealed. Lucius’ study did exist; she had been right all along! Eagerly, she stepped away from Draco, unsure where to go. She turned back to him, an excited, almost mad smile across her face. “Show me, please.”

He tipped his head back slightly, looking down his nose at her while still smirking. Draco floated toward the opposite wall, facing the windows. His hands were folded behind his back as he made a show of sighing. Seeing this, she momentarily forgot he wasn’t actually capable of such gestures. Her patience was waning fast.

“Always so smart, aren’t you, Granger? Throughout school, you were the biggest pain in my arse, academically speaking. Yet I know something you don’t about your precious Hogwarts.” He let his words hang between them, teasing her for a long moment. “Behind this wall—”

Suddenly, the wall shifted and two ornate doors appeared. Draco jerked away. To say he looked surprised was an understatement. “How did you…?”

“Sorry, Malfoy, but you weren’t the only one who knew about the Room of Requirement.” 

He muttered under his breath while she reached the doorknobs, turned them, and pushed her way in. The large doors creaked, and the room behind them was revealed. Smaller than the library next door —had she really been so close all this time? —the study was as dirty as the rest of the manor. Cobwebs and dust clung to every surface, although it was the only room not ransacked or disturbed since the death of last Malfoys.

Hermione’s heart sang within her chest. With just a cursory glance, she knew she had found what she’d been seeking. Thanks to Draco Malfoy. She looked back over her shoulder as he entered the study and smiled. Her smile made him pause, and after a second or two, he returned her smile shyly. Suddenly, she remembered she still had much work to do, and began rattling off aloud everything that had to be done. During her frantic ramblings, she thought she heard him laugh again. No matter. More important tasks lay ahead now.

••• ••• •••

Three hours later, Draco hovered near a wall of ancient masks, some made of human skin, that his father had once prized. Hermione had yet to make her way around to this side of the study. He had watched as she and her quills had taken note of everything clearly visible on display before touching anything. Granger had always been studious and meticulous to a fault, but now he could admire her work and see how beneficial she must be to her department.

Dark thoughts pervaded when he considered what kind of boon she was sure to receive after the discovery of his father’s extensive collection, a collection which began generations ago, was made known. Would she be promoted? Would this bolster her career enough to try for Minister for Magic? Would she offer an exposition of horrors for her peers? _Come, see the wonders of a bigoted madman powerless against a megalomaniac hell-bent on demolishing the world as we know it!_ No, Granger was more sophisticated than that. She’d turn every revolting piece into a deposition about the travesty of the Pure-blood mentality that nearly destroyed everything.

Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be wrong to do so.

Draco looked around the room he had often been in while being reprimanded by his father, most often pertaining to either Potter, in general, or Granger besting his school marks. How his father had made him hate the Mudblood, simply for being better than he had been.

_Muggle-born_ , he corrected himself, slightly ashamed. Only near the end of his life had Draco considered altering the beliefs his father had instilled in him, all because of Hermione Granger. _What if things had been different,_ he wondered yet again. If he had managed to shirk his father’s will, defied both his parents and truly befriended Harry Potter —not for personal gain or societal approval, but merely for friendship’s sake— would he still be alive today? All Draco knew for certain was that the demands of blood purity had finished them all in the end. 

He knew, morose thoughts like this were of little use and perilous when time no longer had any definition, and yet, he couldn’t escape them. He envied Hermione Granger so much that it almost hurt just to see her here, poking through his father’s precious effects. Lucius had had more affection for these damned things than he had ever shown to Draco.

Two small lines formed between his brows as he studied her. She was practically giddy with excitement; however, he noted how very cautious she was, using her wand to levitate the tomes of Oberon Beardsley, who, as legend told, enslaved Muggles and sacrificed them in order to see into the future. According to his father, Muggle blood was used to write his many wicked accounts within those very books. Beardsley had cursed the books so that should ever a Muggle— or Muggle-born —come in contact with them, that person would be trapped within the leather bindings.

The study was full of such wonderful little oddities.

Granger carefully catalogued Beardsley’s books before casting a protective shield around the set, shrinking them down and depositing them inside her little bag. Next, she moved to the glass and oak curio cabinets, the shelves cluttered with knick-knacks, bones, gems, and more. She looked like an enormous bird, her head bobbing up and down as she consulted her notes and studied the contents of the displays. Although irritated and somewhat bored, Draco couldn’t look away. No, he wanted to be here when she removed the items, not because he did not trust her, but because he knew that once she was finished, she would leave.

And he’d be alone again.

“Ooh,” Granger cooed as she reached for a small china doll. Before he even realized it, Draco’s hand reached out, ineffectually, to stop hers. Luckily, she stilled upon the faint contact. Neither of them pulled back. He looked down at her hands, admiring the wonderful colour of life they held. When she noticed this, she pulled back. 

“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking, was I?” Hermione tugged her hands away, rubbing them together, muttering about how dry her skin was and something about lotion and ink. How was it she was still so self-conscious after last night? He reached out for her, drawing her attention and silencing her with a cool, barely felt touch. 

“Be careful, Granger,” he said, his eyes intent on her now still hands. His ghostly fingers traced the bones of her hand, across where a wedding ring might have been. “My Father kept ghastly things, such as that doll, that could extinguish the life within you before you took your next breath.” He met her eyes then and felt a desperation rise within him. “Never forget how precious life is.” 

Granger’s eyes were large, a deep whisky-brown he wanted to sink into and never resurface. It wasn’t fair. He’d never had a chance: to live outside of his father’s tyranny, to prove he was more than an immature bigot. Never had a chance to experience all the wonderful, horrible things everyone else did; but most of all, he never had a chance with Hermione Granger. Despite her wondrous display of affection and compassion last night, he wondered if it wouldn’t be better if she just left.

He looked away from those hypnotic eyes and whispered, more to himself than to her, “I don’t like being alone anymore. I never meant for this to happen. ‘S’not fair … dying before my time.”

Without expecting any response, Draco floated away. The silence pressed against his back, feeling much like the intese gaze of her lovely eyes, until he heard the curio doors snick open. Draco didn’t turn around. He continued toward the far corner, considering his bleak future. She had always had a bright future, but he realized he didn’t truly resent her for it. However, he did wish he could have been at least some small part of it.

••• ••• •••

She spent an indeterminate amount of time watching him before resuming her work. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts; things she ought to say, wanted to say, but had no idea where even to begin. And her heart was even worse off.

“Draco?” 

“Hurry it up, Granger,” he snapped back. He turned his face halfway toward her and she could see the scowl there. “Your life is wasting away here, almost as quickly as my patience, so get what you came for and get out!” 

Hermione flinched at his words. Her impulses told her to contradict him, but she found she honestly couldn’t. She needed to go home, back to her real life, far away from Malfoy Manor and its inhabitant, for they were clearly muddling her up. Back home, she had friends, family who loved her, as well as a very important job to which she was devoted. Yet, this brief time spent here with the ghost of Draco Malfoy had left her wanting something more, something she could never have, and realizing that made it all the more tragic. Somehow, she’d fallen in love with him.

Hermione looked again toward his departing shade. Yes, she was definitely overdue for home. Hermione turned back to the curios and doubled her speed, anxious to leave this place —leave _him_ — behind, before she was completely ruined.

••• ••• •••

Hermione found it quite eerie how Draco simply floated into the corner, neither speaking nor moving. Her elation at determining that everything on the estate listings she had expected to find at Malfoy Manor was all accounted for was short-lived. Now what? Yes, the project had been quite successful and was nearly finished, but what of her second project, that of helping Draco Malfoy?

There had been very little of any real information to be found in the countless books and scrolls they had accessed. Essentially, he was destined to remain here on Earth as a ghost until he, somehow, resolved whatever issue, or issues, lingered beyond his death. At least, that was the theory, if they could place any faith on their limited discoveries. There were no successful accounts found of any ghost returning to the living, which she suspected he’d hoped to find. When she edged around the topic of what might have kept him earthbound, Draco had been quick to change the subject, often threw a temper tantrum. 

What they definitely had avoided was the most pressing topic at hand: what would happen to Draco when the Ministry decided to either sell or destroy the Manor? Hermione had been quick to suggest he simply move into Hogwarts. However, according to an account by fifteenth-century wizard historian, Oliver Elphick, ghosts were incapable of leaving their location chosen prior to death. They could be exorcised, he’d written, but otherwise, they remained behind wherever their spirit chose to be.

What she kept to herself was something Harry had passed on from Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington: that not only those who had unfinished business remained, but also those who feared death itself. As much of a bully and a prat as Draco Malfoy had been during their years at Hogwarts, Hermione had witnessed more than one cowardly performance by him and feared that that was the reason he stayed behind. Yesterday, she couldn’t tell him that, but what of today, now that she was leaving? Did he, in fact, already know as much? Were they both ignoring that detail, as well as another just as tricky?

Hermione recognized his bravado earlier, which was why she remained silent. What point was there in adding insult to injury by outright telling him that she knew he was putting on a show to make her resent him? None, but it still nagged at her. Draco didn’t fool her.

Had he been alive, it would have been a completely different story. For starters, his antiquated prejudice would initially have stood between them. The next issue would have been her friends. Harry possibly might accept Draco, if Hermione had insisted. Ron, on the other hand… he would resist up to his last breath. 

Oh, she was going mad again! She really did need to get far away from this place, or else she’d continue to sink in the quagmire of impossibilities and wishful thinking. Draco Malfoy’s fate was beyond her control, whether she liked it or not. Telling him _any_ of this would not help him, so she decided to stay quiet. 

A small voice spoke up. _There’s something eternal… something sad, and small, and … mean, and pathetic about being a ghost._ But the most troubling thought that rattled around her brain was, _Could something like this happen to me?_

“Are you finished yet?” His voice was gruff and it startled her from a long silence. 

_Why are you so mean, so cold? What good does it do you,_ she wanted to ask, but didn’t. Yes, her time here was over. It was time for her to leave him, forever. “Yes, for now. It’s late, and I can finish up in the morning. Malfoy…” 

The words were just on the tip of her tongue, struggling against her better sense and what her heart urged her to say, to do. “Thank you,” was all she managed, in the end.

He gave a curt nod and turned toward the door, obviously waiting for her to leave first. With her head held high and her back stiff, she led the way, quickly opening the study door and exiting into the long gallery. Judging from her notes, Hermione estimated that if she started very early first thing tomorrow, she would be finished and on her way back to the Ministry before nightfall. Mentally, she strategized her plan, which was why she was completely startled by the woman standing across the way by the windows, watching them both.

Hermione flung her bag back behind her when she saw Bellatrix Lestrange not ten feet in front of her. She’d barely had time to raise up a defensive charm before the crazed witch attacked. The long gallery was lit up like New Year’s Eve, from all the spells cast by both witches. Neither said a word as they flung spells toward one another. Hermione could feel the strain of this scrimmage quickly affecting her and was amazed and even impressed by Bellatrix’s apparent endurance. While going through her repertoire of offensive and defensive manoeuvres, Hermione felt baffled. How the hell had she escaped Azkaban? 

Following the Second Wizarding War, Bellatrix Lestrange had been single-handedly apprehended by Molly Weasley, and it took next to no time for the Wizengamot to send her immediately back to the recently-remodeled prison. The mad witch was sentenced to a Dementor’s Kiss for her crimes, but unfortunately, the new wizarding world order had had many problems to contend with. The Kiss had been delayed indefinitely. Seeing her here today was evidence enough that the system had failed in more than one instance. 

Hermione ducked down behind a large, smashed armoire to catch her breath. Frantically glancing about, she didn’t see Draco anywhere. Silently counting to three, she lunged out from her hiding spot and, unfortunately, met a much closer enemy than she anticipated.

With a sharp flick of her wand, Bellatrix disarmed Hermione. There wasn’t even time enough for her to scream, let alone call back her wand into her grasp, before the insane woman cast again. The last thing she thought she heard was Draco screaming.

••• ••• •••

Draco, being impervious to most of the shots, was almost too stunned to even move once the battle commenced. Even so, he still felt compelled to duck and hide, back inside the study. He could hear an exchange of spells as they zinged back and forth. And then it was quiet. Draco peeked around the door to see what was happening. It was all too quick. In one moment, the two witches seemed evenly matched, and in the next, Hermione was gone. Just… gone. Before he could do anything at all, his Aunt had overpowered her.

How had this happened?

Bellatrix let out an impressive screech, spinning in a circle where she stood, not far from where Hermione had been. Her spinning stopped, and suddenly, she was facing him. She truly looked awful, worse than he could ever recall. All her maddening black curls were gone, her scalp exposed in several patches, where it looked as though someone had hacked her hair away with rusty, dull scissors. She was dirty, caked with mud and quite possibly excrement.

At least she was alone, or so he hoped, but then, what did that matter to him? There was nothing he could have done to her or to an entire host of bastards. Draco was completely powerless against her, as always. She stood there facing him. Bellatrix cocked her head to one side and then the other. “There’s something different ‘bout you,” she said at last then cackled. 

Despite reminding himself that she couldn’t harm him anymore than he could her, Draco cringed backwards at her approach. Up close, she looked even worse. Several of her teeth had rotted out of her head, and there was a new scar— or at least one he did not remember, which bisected the right side of her face, from forehead to mid-cheek. It was deep and angry red, as though it had been allowed to fester a good while before someone attended to it. He wondered if it was self-inflicted.

“Draco,” she drawled, her voice a hissing sound that demanded his full attention. “Poor, poor Draco. You’ve gone and died, haven’t you? Not surprising, really. I always told Cissy you were … weak. Too much like your father. Cissy?! Come out, come out!” She cackled again, spinning in circles.

He stared at her in utter shock as the crazy witch dashed up and down the long gallery, calling out his dead mother’s name. He still couldn’t move or look away, although his mind was completely absorbed with what had happened. Bellatrix hadn’t used an Unforgiveable on Hermione —at least, he didn’t think so. She hadn’t said the words, nor was Hermione’s body lying prone on the floor. Draco may not have witnessed anyone being killed, but he knew there ought to be a body. 

A shimmer of hope rang through him. Perhaps she wasn’t dead after all. This jolt of excitement was short-lived, however, as Bellatrix ran in and then immediately out of his father’s study, enraged. 

“What’s this?!”

In her hands she dangled Hermione’s little bag, the one she’d been collecting all of the Dark magical books and objects in. “What have you done?!” She bellowed, rage distorting her face into a horrible beast. 

Regardless of his belief that she could not actually harm him, he cringed.

••• ••• •••

Hermione crawled on her hands, elbows, and knees, using her left hand to feel the wall beside her. The blackness had swallowed the small, cramped room whole. She tried to ignore it, uselessly blinking now and again, doubting the darkness’ completeness. When she found a corner, she shuffled to turn with it and continued around, determining the size of her prison. There was no door she could find, however. No seams, nothing but cold cement on every side and the dirt beneath her knees. Her assumption then was that she was underground, possibly beneath the manor somewhere. However, that thought was quickly replaced by the notion that she could very well be anywhere, far away from the manor. Potentially anywhere in the world. Bellatrix Lestrange was demented and wicked, her devious mind could have easily cast Hermione to the farthest corners of the Earth, where no one would ever think to look for her.

Panic rose within her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. At least she was still alive, which was more than she would have expected. She was aware of how limited her air was however below ground she was, and knew it was reckless to either scream for help or give into her anxieties. If only she had her wand. _Stop._ It was impossible for either of them to have guessed that they would cross paths with the deranged witch once she and Draco had left the study. How had she managed to escape Azkaban a second time? And what was happening to Draco while she was being buried alive?

Hermione frantically shook her head, ridding herself of that horrid thought. No, she wasn’t going to think of that because if she did, she’d give into the fear, and then she would surely die. No, she had to focus, and breathe carefully. There had to be a way out. As she continued to feel around, her thoughts returned to Draco.

It was a small consolation to her to know that, because he was already dead, there was little harm Bellatrix could actually do to Draco; however, she still worried. After counting four corners, she decided to rest a bit. The close room wasn’t high enough for her to sit up comfortably, so she had to lie on her back. In this position, she stretched out her arms and legs until she could touch the walls surrounding her, giving her a better understanding of the size of the enclosure. She relaxed her body as best she could. Her fingers dug into the dirt as she imagined clawing at Bellatrix’s face. She exhaled slowly, attempting to release her anger and tension so that she might concentrate on how to escape this death trap. There had to be a way out, but without magic, she was greatly hindered.

She would be missed, eventually. Mentally she calculated the size of the crawl space against her own size to determine how much oxygen was available. Then, she adjusted that for the amount of carbon dioxide she was creating with every exhale. If she remained calm, if she kept very still and did not panic, Hermione determined she had, at most, sixty minutes of air left.

“Help me, Draco,” she whispered into the dark as a single tear slid down her cheek and into her ear.

••• ••• •••

“How could you let this happen?” Bellatrix raged through the study, flinging her wand madly around and scorching everything in her path. He remained silent, refusing to indulge her wrath. Instead, he focused on how to save Hermione. What had this bitch done to her? Having died before finishing school, on top of not necessarily being the most diligent student, Draco could not boast the broadest spectrum of incantations. Draco did have some knowledge of Dark magic though, thanks to his father, but nothing he thought of clicked into place. Every idea that came to him he was able to discredit quickly. His only hope was that she wasn’t dead and that he had time enough to find her, to save her.

Bellatrix was worse than he’d ever seen her. How long had she been here? Surely, he would have noticed if she’d been around the manor before Hermione had come? Maybe not, since he had no actual recollection of anything following his death years ago. He glanced around the study, thinking about the rest of his home, its ravaged state. She was raging about what the Dark Lord would do to him when she told her master how he’d allowed a filthy damned Mudblood to sully the place. A small fire had erupted at the base of a curtained window due to her wild cursing. She was frantically searching the shelves —for what he couldn’t begin to guess—all the while cursing and screeching. 

While her back was to him, Draco considered running away. She couldn’t very well stop him, could she? However, by that same token, what help could he possibly be to Hermione? He couldn’t even touch her, he was so insignificant. His own worthlessness swallowed him whole. Draco could practically feel the emptiness of his soul eating away at him, zapping his already limited abilities into nothingness. 

Why must he always be a failure?

Bellatrix was muttering to herself, her body hunched over like a miserable hag, scuttling back and forth along the wall of half-empty curios. What did she want? The sooner he got rid of her, the better, and the only way he could think of to do that was to give the bitch whatever it was she wanted. He’d have to speak to her, he realized with dread. 

“What do you want?” His voice was low and deep but it drew her sharp attention instantly. He recoiled from the look she gave him. Had he ever seen anything as horrifying as this woman before him now? He couldn’t say. Draco bravely stood his ground when she charged him, her black eyes wide and hysterical. She sniffed him, her whitened tongue darting out much like a snake, as if to taste him. Maybe she could taste him now. 

“Cissy ought to have drowned you. I told her so. Like the other ones,” she said, her eyes ceaselessly searching him out. “The Malfoys were nothing but weaklings, and you! You were as useless as tits on a nun!” She gave out a raucous scream of laughter, one he most definitely remembered. “You’re the reason Cissy had to die, you know. Poor, pitiful baby Draco, incapable of a simple chore —got himself killed in a toilet! Oh, the shame,” she hissed, using her wand to prod the edges of his torn shirt where Potter’s fatal curse had got him. Although he couldn’t feel the prodding, he wanted to cringe back from her touch. 

“Your father was no better— Cissy _deserved better_! She wouldn’t listen to me, no! All those years, lording over her as though she was nothing but filth beneath his shiny nails! Funny how easy it is to get yourself killed in battle, huh? Very easy.” She gave him a sickening smile. 

Draco’s mind reeled at her words, beyond disturbed. Anger roiled within him, making him clench his fists at his side. Luckily, Bellatrix sauntered away at that moment. She was laughing again, jerking her body from side to side, almost dancing in her own perverse way. She returned to the shelves, using her wand to tap her way through the titles, every so often shooting a book off the shelves, hurling them seemingly attoward him. At first, Draco ducked, but when a book simply shot through him with no effect, he remained standing, watching her. 

“Oh, Cissy, Cissy! Absolutely inconsolable over _him_! Said she had nothing left to live for after you both abandoned her.” Her voice went from mockingly sympathetic to outraged in mere seconds. “She had me— she always had me! But that wasn’t enough —no! No,” she hissed, her body hunched once more as she turned around to face Draco. She held a defensive stance and stared across the study at him from beneath her hooded eyes. She smiled but then her face contorted; she looked like a cracked porcelain doll with bulging black eyes. Her body began rocking again, side to side, swinging almost. “Father always preferred Narcissa, but she was never as strong as I, not even unto the moment of her death. So frail, hardly anything left of her. No fight in her, either. It was what she wanted. Was for the best, after all.”

••• ••• •••

Hermione held very, very still to keep from panicking. She had no idea how much time had passed, but knew that every minute she remained here the less likely she would make it out alive.

She’d tried to perform some wandless magic, but nothing had worked, not even a floating ball of light to illuminate her prison. The cramped space was getting warmer, too, caused from her exhalations and the heat from her body. More than once, she got dirt in her eyes and worked herself up trying to clear it out. Now she kept them shut, letting her tear ducts clean her eyes naturally. Hermione’s mind was elsewhere, for the most part, worrying about Bellatrix Lestrange. 

If only she’d thought to send a Patronus to Croaker, letting him know her of progress! She wanted to laugh. Who was she kidding? Croaker likely wouldn’t do anything; the man was nearly two hundred years old, for Merlin’s sake, and he rarely left the Department of Mysteries. But perhaps he would have told someone else, someone who could have rescued her.

Her fingers traced the smooth cement wall as she thought. Suddenly, she had an idea. Her heart raced as she reached under her shirt to tug free her belt. Although it was a small, plain belt with a simple buckle, it was still metal. Hermione wrapped the leather belt around her right hand, placing the buckle across her fingers between the second and third joints. Then she began to knock. 

The sound was small, almost too quiet, but Hermione refused to give in. She continued to knock rhythmically, every few seconds. Someone had to hear her. 

They had to.

She tried to occupy her mind with other things, more pleasant things, like spending time with her friends, seeing her honorary niece and nephews at parties and saying goodbye to them at the Hogwarts Express. Hermione had always wanted children of her own. She thought about Ron and Harry, and what they had shared over decades of friendship, the good and the bad. She wondered if she’d ever see them again. She even spared a moment for her ex-husband, the bastard, wherever he might be, which was more than he’d ever done for her. But in between all these memories, she kept seeing Draco Malfoy, both as he was then and now. 

Her heart seized up in her chest, the panic trying to take over again, and she fought it back. Her knocking ceased. Getting worked up was a truly bad idea. Silent tears slid from her closed eyes, pooling inside the shell of her ear. Her breathing began to hitch, and soon enough she was sobbing.

_Please, I’m not ready to die…_

••• ••• •••

By now Bellatrix had retrieved Hermione’s bag and was yanking random things out of it, throwing them across the room when she decided they were not whatever she was after. Draco eyed the mantel clock. Nearly an hour had passed, he supposed, since his aunt had arrived. Precious minutes had been lost that ought to have been used to find Hermione, but instead, he was held captive here.

Or was he?

Draco eyed the mad witch as she bellowed in frustration, finally turning the bag upside down and shaking it wildly. All it would take were seconds, possibly less, to simply vanish from her sight. Once he was free from her, he could find Granger, and together, they could destroy this madwoman. Somehow.

He hadn’t moved a metre before she was upon him. 

“Uh-uh-uh!” she tutted, her mouth agape, exposing her rotten teeth again. “And where do you think _you’re_ off to, love?”

Draco held his head up, deigning to look down his nose at her. She couldn’t actually hurt him, he reminded himself. Could she? His bravado flickered and she must have seen it for Bellatrix began to manoeuvre him away from the door. “Not running away to find your Mudblood whore, are you? Now that would be foolish! You sick little bastard, sullying the family with your disgusting fascinations. Did she get your knob in a twist, hm? Dipping your quill in such filth —no wonder your parents hated you.” Her words were drawn out and quiet.

“Your little cunny is locked far, far away. I intend to have a jolly good time with her, later,” she threatened. “After I find the book.”

“What book?” The words escaped before he could stop them.

“The Dark Lord has many little trinkets and gewgaws, ‘ittle treasures and such. Your worthless father had one, as did I until that vile bitch downstairs stole mine from me!” Her booming screech filled the study, bouncing off the walls, but he hardly noticed. _Downstairs._ Hermione was here, still, waiting for him. 

Bellatrix continued to rant about what Draco could only suppose were the Horcruxes Hermione had told him about. Didn’t she know they were all gone, as was that tyrant? How was it possible for his aunt to have lost even more of her mind than she already had? Soon, he began hearing the vitriol she was spitting out about his mother and father—himself, too. Oh, how badly he wanted to kill her then, to wrap his cold, dead hands around her throat and squeeze, squeeze until he saw the malicious life seep out of her. 

He damned Potter once again for killing him all those years ago. If he hadn’t been killed, none of this would have happened. His parents would still be alive, and surely, someone would have murdered this insane bitch by now. Draco could almost feel the hatred thrumming through his spirit. He was anxious to do _something_ , anything. He glanced around, desperate for something to hurl at her, something that would shut her mouth for good. He wanted her to rot in the pits of Hell for everything she had done to his family and him. 

But he was utterly powerless.

His rage subsided momentarily when he pictured Hermione, her eyes closed in anticipation of his kiss.

At last, Draco knew what to do. Slowly, carefully he approached his mad aunt. She turned to face him, taking on an offensive stance, her crooked wand aimed directly at him. Without a word, she flung a lightning bolt at him. He felt nothing but heard the sizzle of the magic as it burned through the shelf behind him. Draco smiled as his confidence grew with his pace. Frantically, Bellatrix cast spell after spell, her confidence melting into fear the closer he came. None of her magic had any effect on him. 

When he was at last within arm’s reach, she flung her wand itself at him. It spun end over end through his spectral body, clanging on the floor where it landed. Her twisted and gnarled hands were her only remaining weapon, and she reached out to strangle Draco. Just like every attack she’d tried, they failed to hurt him.

“You killed my parents,” he whispered, so close to her face he could see hardly more than her black, sunken eyes. “To rid the family line of weakness. Now I’ll rid it of cruelty. Say hello to Voldemort, bitch!”

Bellatrix’s eyes widened impossibly as Draco leaned down and kissed her lips. Although she struggled, she could not break free from his embrace. Draco kept his eyes open, watching. He could feel the vibrations of her scream, and he saw her hollow face grow gaunter, thinner, the bones quickly protruding from her withering skin. What little colour she’d had was gone, her tight skin turning a harsh grey. The bones in her face began collapsing on themselves, crumpling up and shrinking back. Draco continued to kiss her.

After a moment longer, he released her corpse, which crumpled to the floor in a heap of bones and leathery skin and rags. Draco spared a few seconds to take in what used to be his most hated relative before rushing out of the study, headed directly for the dungeons.

••• ••• •••

All through the first floor and then the ground floor Draco soared, calling out her name, pausing briefly to listen for any reply. He found no signs of her anywhere. His panic increased. He sped up, barely seeing a thing as he passed. He knew exactly what he was looking for and could tell well enough that she wasn’t there.

There was only one place left to look.

“Hermione!” Draco’s voice rang out as he zoomed down the dungeon stairs, not bothering to open the barred door. He continued to scream for her as he ducked in and out of the small chambers, becoming more and more afraid the further he went with no sign of her. Where could she be? Had Bellatrix been lying when she’d said she was here? Too late now to ask her. Draco cursed. He wanted to hit something, kick something —he was so frustrated and scared.

Nothing. There was nothing here; she wasn’t here. Draco frantically flew about the dungeons, unable even to light a candle to see into the far corners. At last, he paused to listen, hoping to hear her call his name or rattle those damned chains, letting him know where to find her. “Hermione!”

Silence.

Then, a small tapping, almost too quiet to hear, sounded. He listened harder, but there was nothing. His panicked mind must have imagined it, and his frustrations grew exponentially. There was hardly a doubt in his mind that Bellatrix was capable of outright lying to him and that her deranged mind had only been goading him. Draco thought he’d check outside next.

Then, it came again, the tapping noise. This time, he remained still, straining his hearing to discover its origin. In the darkest corner, he located the noise. He called her name with relief, but she did not answer. Searching every inch of that cell, he found no clues beyond the irregular tapping noise. He focused on the sound and realized it was beneath him.

He cursed his aunt’s name with colour and fervour as he desperately considered how in Merlin’s name he would dig down to where Hermione must be. He had no hands, no real form —it was impossible! She was going to die because Draco was already dead himself. He cursed Potter again with more heat. 

How could he reach her? “I’m here, Hermione,” he said, drifting closer to the ground, almost lying on top of where he suspected she was buried. No telling how much dirt lay between them; and worse still, he had no idea how she’d managed to hang on this long. Or how much longer she could wait for him.

Draco screamed bloody murder, circling the cell. No, now was not the time to give into panic and fits. But how could he reach her?

He looked up, thinking about all the times he’d managed to float directly through the walls and doors without a second thought. Could dirt be any harder? 

Draco cleared his mind, which was extremely difficult, considering the present circumstances. Eventually, he began to sink. The tapping noise grew louder, as did another sound. Crying, hitching breath. He concentrated harder on reaching her, not realizing he passed through both earth and cement to do so.

“Hermione?”

She gasped and choked.

“I’m here, love, I’m here,” he tried to soothe her. His incandescence lit up the tiny chamber enough to make her out. Her hair was tangled and messy, her face muddy with clean streaks leading down into her ears. Her right hand was bound in leather, and he could see a little blood running down the back. Draco desperately wanted to touch her, to feel her solidly beneath his hands, to know that she was still alive, if barely.

Hermione’s breathing was laboured and irregular, her skin pallid. The room, if it could be called that, was solid on every sid, save the floor, which was nothing but dirt and rocks. The air was heavy and humid, not asvcool as he would have expected. Knowing her as he did, he was certain she’d tried everything within her power to escape. 

In a sudden flash of clarity, he knew: he couldn’t save Hermione. All he could do now was be with her ‘til the end. Looking down at her sticky face, he realized she knew that as well. _Always one step ahead of me, aren’t you? ___

__She struggled to keep her eyes open. Her lips were chapped, her throat dry, and she was trying to say something._ _

__“What is it, Hermione?” He moved even closer to hear her, yearning to hold her tight._ _

__“I’d…” Her voice was so hoarse and unfamiliar, he wanted to howl. “kill… for a…a Butterbeer.”_ _

__The laughter bubbled out of him uncontrollably. “That’s my girl!” He offered her a smile, which she attempted to match, but all of her energy seemed depleted._ _

__“I tried to save you,” he whispered. His spectral body thrummed, desperate for the glorious releases granted only to the physical body. He wanted to cry. Hermione’s gasp was sharp and hollow, her chest heaving with each attempt to breathe. She smiled at him again, the edges watery and fragile, but she was still so beautiful, even unto death._ _

__“I wasn’t ready to die,” she breathed._ _

__“I’m here, love. You’re not alone. You’re going to get out of here.” He stretched himself out alongside her, using his hands to sweep across her face, hoping the coolness gave her some relief. It was impossible for him to tell, though. Her breaths grew farther and farther between and more shallow, her eyes turned glassy and unseeing, their lids heavy. He continued to whisper to her, things he hoped would comfort her, promises they both knew he would never be able to keep._ _

__“Hermione… don’t go without me,” he begged._ _

__With a tremendous effort, she turned her head toward him, her forehead nearly touching his._ _

__“I’ll meet you on the other side,” she whispered._ _

__

____

The End


End file.
